The Ladies of the Canyon

In the evening, through the silence,
When the breezes soft, are still,
Then the Ladies of the Canyon
Come a-creeping up the hill.
And these Ladies of the Canyon,
In their garments pale, of gray,
Are as silent as the night clouds
That are closing out the day.
They come creeping, gray robes trailing,
Gray veils floating 'round their hair;
On they're stealing up the canyon,
Till they reach my house up there.
Then they circle 'round and rest them,
As their garments, gray, they spread
Over flowers and my roof tree,
And the chimney's gray old head.
And I know them for no spirits
Though they have a ghostly way,
For these Ladies of the Canyon
Are but mists from off the bay.