by Henrietta Cordelia Ray
When woods are odorous at eve
With violet perfume, and are fair
With leafy vistas stretching far,
Tinged by the golden air,
The mirrored clouds come down to catch
The warbling of a thousand streams;
And music weird like chords confused,
Heard in unquiet dreams,—
Floats through the arches from the clear
Wind-harps astir among the trees,
While in lone depths the nightingale
Trills soothing melodies.
Doves tenderly the prelude coo
To plaintive anthems yet unsung,
And leaves respond with dreamy sway,
That late all passive hung.
Waves of tremolo sweetness make
The warm air palpitate with sound,
Until the woods are quivering
With music all around.
Each note enfolding one more soft—
Of some enchanting whole a part—
Wakes the unuttered harmonies
Of ev'ry restless heart.
When undertones of strange unrest
Within us moan like babes in pain,
Come nightingale of silver song,
And trill thy sweetest strain.
When thought lies gently on the soul
Like dew impearled upon a rose,
Come tender doves of cadence rare,
And lull us to repose.
Last updated March 26, 2023