midnight
He had made three little songs for her . Franz had not much voice , but it had a peculiar wail in it , and he sang , like the born and trained musician that he was , with that absolute mastery over his means , that certain perfection of utterance , that power of conveying , to the shade of a shade , the inmost spirit and meaning of the music which only belong to those great and rare artists whose perfect art is alive with the inspiration that can not be learnt . `` The first song he sang was the call of a home-going shepherd to his flock on the hills at sunset , and when he sang it he brought the largeness of the dying evening and the solemn hills into the elegant throne-room . The second song was the cry of a lonely fisherman on the river at midnight , and as he sang it he brought the mystery of broad starlit waters into the taper-lit , gilded hall . The third song was the song of the happy lover in the orchard at dawn . And when he sang it he brought the smell of dewy leaves and grass , the soaring radiance of spring and early morning , to that powdered and silken assembly . The Court applauded him , but they were astonished and slightly disappointed , for they had expected something grand and complicated , and not three simple tunes .