In Silence

A long low line of blue hills toward the west,Above them lingering still a crimson stain,—A purple shade of azure in the east,And lying under it a grass-grown plain.

A river broad and deep, with wooded shores,Bearing upon its breast a boat snow-white,—An idle rower leaning on the oars,And drifting with the silence and the night.

The birds, so wearied with the day's sweet songs,Have sought their eyries in the forest-trees;Not even a lonesome nightingale prolongsThe wild wood concert with her melodies.

The moon, so calm in holy quietude.Sails in the pathless ocean of the blue;As if to cheer her queenly solitude,A single star from the pale gloom peeps through.

The shadows thicken. On the southern ridgeThe weird pine forest rises grim and black,—The white road leading to the alder bridgeGleams through the maples like a ghostly track.

The lush green meadows send up clouds of mist,White as the snow that falls from wintry skies;Day's forehead pales where Night has stooped and kissedTo gloom and silence all her brilliant dyes.