THE soft night, like a silent child
Before some wondrous thing,
Withholds its breath, as if beguiled
By songs the fairies sing.
It seems to stand and listen, still
As statue in a grove—
Perhaps it hears a fairy trill
A strain Titania wove.
Ah, no, the night hears not her song,
For it would then be glad;
And I have listened here so long,
I know the night is sad.
Now if it be a song that keep
The hour when night should part,
Then night must hear from my soul’s deep,
The music of my heart.