Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | ||
FOREST QUIET.
[In the South.]
So deep this sylvan silence, strange and sweet,
Its dryad-guardian, virginal Peace, can hear
The pulses of her own pure bosom beat;
Its dryad-guardian, virginal Peace, can hear
The pulses of her own pure bosom beat;
And her low voice echoed by elfin rills.
And far-off forest fountains, sparkling clear
'Mid haunted hollows of the hoary hills;
And far-off forest fountains, sparkling clear
'Mid haunted hollows of the hoary hills;
No breeze, nor wraith of any breeze that blows,
Stirs the charmed calm; not even yon gossamer-chain,
Dew-born, and swung 'twixt violet and wild rose,
Stirs the charmed calm; not even yon gossamer-chain,
Dew-born, and swung 'twixt violet and wild rose,
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Thrills to the airy elements' subtlest breath;
Such marvellous stillness almost broods like pain
O'er the hushed sense, holding dim hints of death!
Such marvellous stillness almost broods like pain
O'er the hushed sense, holding dim hints of death!
What shadows of sound survive, the waves' far sigh,
Drowsed cricket's chirp, or mock-bird's croon in sleep,
But touch this sacred, soft tranquillity
Drowsed cricket's chirp, or mock-bird's croon in sleep,
But touch this sacred, soft tranquillity
To yet diviner quiet: the fair land
Breathes like an infant lulled from deep to deep
Of dreamless rest, on some wave-whispering strand!
Breathes like an infant lulled from deep to deep
Of dreamless rest, on some wave-whispering strand!
Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | ||