From over western hill-tops, where the ruddy sun has dropped,
There comes a line of shadows, marching down,
They are clothed in softest gray, and they’re marching all the way,
From the distant, purple hill-tops to the town.
For their Shadow-King in silence leads them marching, marching on
Across the meadow lands along the lane
Where the glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, and the poppy flower is dreaming
And the summer wind is stealing through the grain.
For the evening dew has fallen, and the evening mists are low,
And every blossom wears a silver crown;
While the winds are singing, sighing, and the day is paling, dying,
They are marching, marching, marching to the town.