by Eliza Acton
THAT voice came o'er me, like the tone
Of music, heard at Even,
From one sweet-breathing flute alone
Beneath the starlight heav'n:
So exquisitely soft--so clear--
Its murmurs sank upon mine ear!
And oh! it floats around me yet
At twilight's stilly hour,
And vainly would my soul forget
Its deep subduing pow'r:
For still, till thought, and feeling die,
Remembrance will its spell supply.
Last updated January 14, 2019