 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
EVEN-SONG.
You must have an even-song?You must try to make it, then,
For to-night my thoughts are dumb;
Not a tuneful word will come
From my tongue, or from my pen.
'Tis the hour when all things sleep,
And the flowers are steeped in dew;
Thoughts are deep, but words are few,
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Silence suits the season best;
Birds are silent in the nest;
Harken, not a note is heard
From the throat of any bird,
Save the distant nightingale,
And her music is a wail.
Better silence till the morrow
Than that mighty dirge of sorrow.
Let our singing, then, go by,
Since the prelude is a sigh;
Yet, since you have waited long,
Take this kiss for even-song!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |