Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night, The fields are wet with dew.
All's quiet in the wood but, far away, Down the hillside and out across the plain, Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way, The softly panting train.
Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see The flowers, save dark or light against the grass, Or glimmering silver on a scented tree That trembles as we pass.
Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ... Move not the rustling grasses with your feet. The dusk is full of sounds, that all along The muttering boughs repeat.
So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt. Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears, Has feigned a dubious and delusive note, Such as a dreamer hears.
Again ... again! The faint sounds rise and fail. So far the enchanted tree, the song so low... A drowsy thrush? A waking nightingale? Silence. We do not know.
My lovely one, be near to me to-night. For now I need you most, since I have gone Through the sparse woodland in the fading light, Where in time past we two have walked alone, Heard the loud nightjar spin his pleasant note, And seen the wild rose folded up for sleep, And whispered, though the soft word choked my throat, Your dear name out across the valley deep. Be near to me, for now I need you most. To-night I saw an unsubstantial flame Flickering along those shadowy paths, a ghost That turned to me and answered to your name, Mocking me with a wraith of far delight. ... My lovely one, be near to me to-night.
The pale road winds faintly upward into the dark skies, And beside it on the rough grass that the wind invisibly stirs, Sheltered by sharp-speared gorse and the berried junipers, Shining steadily with a green light, the glow-worm lies.
We regard it; and this hill and all the other hills That fall in folds to the river, very smooth and steep, And the hangers and brakes that the darkness thickly fills Fade like phantoms round the light, and night is deep, so deep,--
That all the world is emptiness about the still flame, And we are small shadows standing lost in the huge night. We gather up the glow-worm, stooping with dazzled sight, And carry it to the little enclosed garden whence we came,