 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
204
EMMA ABBOTT.
The murmur of some waterfall,
Heard far adown some sylvan way,
Where southern winds and flowers play
And grasses wave and sweet birds call;
Heard far adown some sylvan way,
Where southern winds and flowers play
And grasses wave and sweet birds call;
The vague, strange voices of the night,
That send their sombre echoes through
The fragrant paths, adamp with dew,
To meet the fresher morning light;
That send their sombre echoes through
The fragrant paths, adamp with dew,
To meet the fresher morning light;
The plaint of waves, the rustling leaves,
The fresh, sweet music of the trees
When the tone master of the breeze
A newer, sweeter number weaves;
The fresh, sweet music of the trees
When the tone master of the breeze
A newer, sweeter number weaves;
The tender tones of grass and flowers,
The melody of sun and sky,
The dear old story, that won't die,
Of summer sounds and summer hours;
The melody of sun and sky,
The dear old story, that won't die,
Of summer sounds and summer hours;
Sweet are they, yet more sweetly thrills
Thy clear, strong notes, that hold them all,
The murmur of the waterfall,
The sea, the flowers, the birds, the hills.
Thy clear, strong notes, that hold them all,
The murmur of the waterfall,
The sea, the flowers, the birds, the hills.
September 11th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |