 | Poems |  |
NOCTURN.
[I. Night hovering o'er the languid lily-bell]
Night hovering o'er the languid lily-bell,
Pours shade and sleep;
Dim loitering brooks their dripping rosaries tell;
And shadows creep,
Like ghosts that haunt a dream, through forests still and deep.
Pours shade and sleep;
Dim loitering brooks their dripping rosaries tell;
And shadows creep,
Like ghosts that haunt a dream, through forests still and deep.
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Cool odors sigh across the rustling leaves
In dew distilled;
Far through the hills some falling river grieves;
All earth is stilled,
Save where a dreaming bird with sudden song is thrilled.
In dew distilled;
Far through the hills some falling river grieves;
All earth is stilled,
Save where a dreaming bird with sudden song is thrilled.
The sunshine, tangled in the chestnut boughs,
In darkness dies;
Flowers, with shut eyelids, pay their peaceful vows,
And daylight lies
Faint in the fading West to see the stars arise.
In darkness dies;
Flowers, with shut eyelids, pay their peaceful vows,
And daylight lies
Faint in the fading West to see the stars arise.
Sleep, weary soul! the folding arms of night
For thee are spread;
Her fresh, cool kisses on thy brow alight;
Droop, aching head!
Receive the slumberous dew these gracious heavens have shed.
For thee are spread;
Her fresh, cool kisses on thy brow alight;
Droop, aching head!
Receive the slumberous dew these gracious heavens have shed.
Thy day is long, thy noontide hot and sere;
But eve hath come
To sing low anthems in thy trancèd ear
Like welcomes home,
And prelude this brief sleep with songs of one to come.
But eve hath come
To sing low anthems in thy trancèd ear
Like welcomes home,
And prelude this brief sleep with songs of one to come.
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[II. Dear night, from the hills return]
Dear night, from the hills return!
Darkness hath passed away,
And I see the flush of morning burn,
Red o'er the mountains gray.
My life is like a song
That a bird sings in its sleeping,
Or a hidden stream that flows along
To the sound of its own soft weeping.
Darkness hath passed away,
And I see the flush of morning burn,
Red o'er the mountains gray.
My life is like a song
That a bird sings in its sleeping,
Or a hidden stream that flows along
To the sound of its own soft weeping.
Sunlight is made for care,
For the weary languid day;
When the locust cymbals beat the air,
And the hot winds cease to play.
But night rolls dark and still,
Oblivion's fabled river,
In whose sweet silence the restless will
Sleeps, and would sleep forever.
For the weary languid day;
When the locust cymbals beat the air,
And the hot winds cease to play.
But night rolls dark and still,
Oblivion's fabled river,
In whose sweet silence the restless will
Sleeps, and would sleep forever.
Shrill in the rustled maize
The boding cricket cries;
And through the East, where the dawn delays,
Seaward the wild duck flies.
Noon comes with brazen glare,
Stifling earth's song with splendor,
To drink the mists from the glittering air,
And dew from the blossoms tender.
The boding cricket cries;
And through the East, where the dawn delays,
Seaward the wild duck flies.
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Stifling earth's song with splendor,
To drink the mists from the glittering air,
And dew from the blossoms tender.
But when the night comes on,
With cool and quiet sighs,
To shed fond thoughts on the soul alone,
And rest in the tear-stained eyes,—
I lie beneath the stars,
And life from their light is given,
Till my dreams escape from mortal wars,
And sleep on the shore of heaven.
With cool and quiet sighs,
To shed fond thoughts on the soul alone,
And rest in the tear-stained eyes,—
I lie beneath the stars,
And life from their light is given,
Till my dreams escape from mortal wars,
And sleep on the shore of heaven.
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