THE VOICE.
47
When the purple shades of night-time steal down the gold of day,
And the evening flames of amber make the west a shining way,
That lone and mystic melody my spirit hears alway.
And the evening flames of amber make the west a shining way,
That lone and mystic melody my spirit hears alway.
'Tis a lute no mortal fingers the golden strings have swept,
The rich voice of an oriole whose tones have always slept,—
A moaning, sighing human voice which has forever wept.
The rich voice of an oriole whose tones have always slept,—
A moaning, sighing human voice which has forever wept.
Across the clover meadows where they rake the new-mown hay,
And from the azure bosom of the pulseless crystal bay,
In the dead nights of December, in the passion noons of May.
And from the azure bosom of the pulseless crystal bay,
In the dead nights of December, in the passion noons of May.
Full of tender, soft complaining, floating through the amethyst,
Like a ray of summer sunshine on the evening's sombre mist,—
Like an unplayed strain of music waiting in the wind-harp's cyst.
Like a ray of summer sunshine on the evening's sombre mist,—
Like an unplayed strain of music waiting in the wind-harp's cyst.
Lowly, gently,—never joyous; one subdued and hallowed strain,
Like the dripping on the scented leaves of fragrant August rain,—
'Tis of her heavenly harp-strings the mystical refrain.
Like the dripping on the scented leaves of fragrant August rain,—
'Tis of her heavenly harp-strings the mystical refrain.
