The speaker watches the last sunlight pull back from the mountains in tall golden shafts, like pillars of a temple slowly falling. What follows is a strange, singing hush: the mountains themselves seem to raise broad voices into the blue sky, and night enters through that wall of sound without saying a word. Night is imagined almost as a figure who catches those sounds, crushes them in his fingers, and turns them into a cold, silent couch on which he dreams. The phrase “singing silence” captures how full the quiet feels, as if the absence of sound is itself alive.
The mood is hushed, reverent, and slightly eerie. Dusk becomes an in-between moment full of grandeur and quiet, as if the world is being reshaped from music and light into stillness and sleep. The speaker seems not frightened but absorbed, watching the day give way to night as a slow, dreamlike ceremony.