VOICES OF THE NIGHT. PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Or where the denser grove receives Beneath some patriarchal tree And all the broad leaves over me A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. PRELUDE. Dreams that the soul of youth engage And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; They were my playmates when a child, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, And waved their long arms to and fro, Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. يت |