But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft vapor fills the air, And distant sounds seem near; And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see. O, say not so! Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions fly, Seeking a warmer clime. From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens And on the gravelled pathway I saw the nursery windows But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog He looked for his little playmates, They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! |