Pairing pigeons were home.

Very young rabbits stole out to gaze at the calm still world. They
came out as the stars come. At one time they were not there, and then
you saw them, but you did not see them come.

Towering clouds to the west built palaces, cities and mountains;
bastions of rose and precipices of gold; giants went home over them
draped in mauve by steep rose-pink ravines into emerald-green empires.
Turbulences of colour broke out above the departed sun; giants merged
into mountains, and cities became seas, and new processions of other
fantastic things sailed by. But the chalk slopes facing south smiled
on with the same calm light, as though every blade of grass gathered a
ray from the gloaming. All the hills faced the evening with that same
quiet glow, which faded softly as the air grew colder; and the first
star appeared.

Voices came up in the hush, clear from the valley, and ceased. A light
was lit, like a spark, in a distant window: more stars appeared and
the woods were all dark now, and shapes even on the hill slopes began
to grow indistinct.

Home by a laneway in the dim, still evening a girl was going, singing
the Marseillaise.

In France where the downs in the north roll away without hedges, as
though they were great free giants that man had never confined, as
though they were stretching their vast free limbs in the evening, the
same light was smiling and glimmering softly away.