THE winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody; The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight, -- Her legends fair, -- her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. Nor shall he cease to sing -- in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings -- and will alway. |