"I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts; for every flower, sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of world's afar.
I come with peace; I shed
Sleep through the wood walks, o'er the honey bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones--
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done.
But in the human breast,
A thousand still, small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past,
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb!
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass--though low as murmurs of a dove--
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train;
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead,
Phantoms of heart and brain.
Looks from departed eyes--
These are my lightnings! fill'd with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too precious to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
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I that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one! the arm'd, the strong,
The searcher of the soul.
I that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!--the tempest birth
Of memory, thought, remorse:--be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn night!"