Here again is the same
mind in converse with a like abstraction. "The Night-Wind," breathing through
an open window, has visited an ear which discerned language in its whispers.
THE NIGHT-WIND
In summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window,
And rose-trees wet with
dew.
I sat in silent musing;
The soft wind waved my hair;
It told me heaven was glorious,
And sleeping earth was fair.
I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to
me;
But still it whispered lowly,
How dark the woods will
be!
"The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem."
I said, "Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind:
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind.
"Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple
bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow."
The wanderer would not heed
me;
Its kiss grew warmer still.
"O come!" it sighed so sweetly;
"I'll win thee 'gainst thy
will.
"Were we not friends from
childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn
night,
Whose silence wakes my song.
"And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle
stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And THOU for being alone." |
