So deep this sylvan silence, strange and sweet, Its dryad-guardian, virginal Peace, can hear The pulses of her own pure bosom beat; And her low voice echoed by elfin rills, And far-off forest fountains, sparkling clear 'Mid haunted hollows of the hoary hills; No breeze, nor wraith of any breeze that blows, Stirs the charmed calm; not even yon gossamer-chain, Dew-born, and swung 'twixt violet and wild rose, Thrills to the airy elements' subtlest breath; Such marvellous stillness almost broods like pain O'er the hushed sense, holding dim hints of death! What shadows of sound survive, the waves' far sigh, Drowsed cricket's chirp, or mock-bird's croon in sleep, But touch this sacred, soft tranquillity To yet diviner quiet: the fair land Breathes like an infant lulled from deep to deep Of dreamless rest, on some wave-whispering strand! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE THE SHAPE OF THE CORONER by WALLACE STEVENS THE FLY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE LIFE'S MIRROR by MARY AINGE DE VERE SONNET: 24. THE STREET by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA by HENRY CLAY WORK THE WIRES by ALEXANDER ANDERSON TO SIR JOHN SPENSER KNIGHTE, ALDERMAN OF LONDON by RICHARD BARNFIELD |