DUSK falls, and through the deepening silence where Red afterglows yon ashen roof do paint Whose dormer children's tapers gild so fair, Far vesper chimes disperse their music faint. Beneath an ancient arch the river turns Full of his inexpressive melody: With tenderest longing my whole being yearns To set his old, imprisoned story free! Unto this gloaming world, thou, Spirit sweet, With me art come; thou art of village things A low-voiced, love-enfolding paraclete Who soothest all their sleepy murmurings, And lurest from river, chime, and thatchen stead Tales of the inarticulate, and the dead. |