A Night-Piece

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.