A TREMOR slides from the hill-slopes down to the plains; From the hill-slopes and from the woods, in the plain and the croft A tremor of night passes on to the country lanes. —O! the Angelus bell in the sunset chiming aloft!— Under a chilly gust the songs grow soft, Afar the sound of singing and laughter dies In the dense mist rising up as a breath upcurls, A slow breath scattering far its last fond sighs, Its farewell sighs where the dark wood shakes in dread,— It shakes in dread, and the dry leaf eddying whirls, Whirls and falls on paths that no feet tread. |