And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.
The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:
Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.
To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays.
It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whip-poor-will At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- To hear her sing--to hear her sing!
To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again.
Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.
Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say.
The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.
To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--
To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!
Being his mother--when he goes away I would not hold him overlong, and so Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; Let his remembered features, as I pray, Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: Its fullest speech ever to be denied Mine own--being his mother! All thereof Thou knowest only, looking from the skies As when not Christ alone was crucified.
Out at Woodruff Place--afar From the city's glare and jar, With the leafy trees, instead Of the awnings, overhead; With the shadows cool and sweet, For the fever of the street; With the silence, like a prayer, Breathing round us everywhere.