I heard a wood thrush singing late and long

In the warm silence of the afternoon,

And drew more near to hear his secret croon

And intimate close confidence of song,

But at the noisy tread of my rude feet

The music ceased, the phantom voice was gone,"

And far away I heard him, in the sweet,

Serene recesses singing, and alone.

The law is written on the evening skies,

The wood thrush sings its beauty and despair;

Thou shalt not trespass where the loveliest lies,

Nor use the holiest place for common prayer,

And surely as God liveth, to the eyes

Of him who lifts the veil, He is not there.