Complete. From “Poems in Prose.”

THE DAY is fading, a great calm falls on weary souls worn by the labors of the day; and now their thoughts take the tender and undecided hues of twilight. Meanwhile from the mountain top, across the transparent clouds of evening, comes to my balcony an uproar of discordant cries, which space transforms into a lugubrious harmony, like that of the rising tide or of an awakening storm. Who are there so unfortunate that they are not calmed by the evening, but take, like owls, the coming of night as a signal for uproar? This sinister ululation comes to us from that dark asylum perched on the mountain; and, in the evening, while smoking and contemplating the immense valley, dotted with homes, each window of which says: “Now here is peace; here is family joy,” I may, when the winds blow from above, sooth my thoughts, astonished at this imitation of the harmonies of hell.

  Twilight frenzies madmen. I remember that I had two friends who were actually made sick by the twilight. One of them disregarded all the relations of friendship and politeness, and, like a savage, ill-treated the first comer. I saw him throw at the head of the hotel steward an excellent fowl, on which he thought he saw some insulting hieroglyphic. The evening, forerunner of profound pleasures, spoiled for him the most succulent dainties. The other, disappointed in his ambitions, became, as the day faded, more bitter, more sombre, more morose. Kind-hearted and sociable still in the daytime, he became pitiless when evening came; and it was not alone against others, but also against himself, that he directed his twilight madness. The first died insane, incapable of recognizing either his wife or child; the other carries within himself the torment of a constant uneasiness, and, were he gratified with all the honors that republics or princes can bestow, I still think that twilight would light in him the burning desire of imaginary distinctions. Night, which placed darkness in their minds, makes the light to shine in mine; and, although it is not rare to see the same cause engender two contrary effects, I still remain both alarmed and puzzled.

  O night! O refreshing darkness! you are for me the signal of a feast within; you are a deliverance from anguish! In the solitude of the wastes, in the stony labyrinths of a capital, with your twinkling of stars, your flashing of the lanterns, you are the fireworks of the Goddess Liberty!

  Twilight, how sweet and tender you are! The rosy tints that linger on the horizon like the agony of day under the victorious oppression of night; the fires of the candelabrums that cause spots of an opaque red to appear on the last glories of the sunset; the heavy draperies that an invisible hand draws from the depths of the Orient, imitate the complicated feelings that struggle in the heart of man at the solemn hours of his life! Again, one might take it for one of those strange robes of the ballet dancers, where a dark and transparent gauze lets through the softened splendors of a dazzling skirt. So through the black present transpierces the delightful past; and the stars twinkling with silver and gold, with which the sky is bespangled, represent those fires of phantasy that are lighted only under the deep gloom of night.