15.07.2007, 12:51
Night
The crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The indoor note of industry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread;
The voiceless flowers – how quietly they shed
Their nightly odours; -- and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now She sleeps;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hush’d in peace; the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair: --
Oh! that I were the happy dream that that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
The crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The indoor note of industry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread;
The voiceless flowers – how quietly they shed
Their nightly odours; -- and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now She sleeps;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hush’d in peace; the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair: --
Oh! that I were the happy dream that that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.