Darkness descends in shadowy folds

Over the distant hills; the breeze

Shivers and stirs in the leafy trees,

And a single star beholds.

The brook murmurs low in the tangled copse,

The jewel-weed stands with its feet in the stream,

By my lantern light the dew-drops gleam

On the leaves like diamond drops.

And lo! like the shuddering wind-stirred leaves,

Like the trembling weed where the waters glide,

A voice from the depths where the wood-birds hide

Its thrilling melody weaves.

What shakes the harp-strings in thy throat?

Is it joy or woe? Is it love or fear?

The mystery of the woods I hear

In the passion of your note.

Do you cry, Woe! Woe! Do you cry, Rejoice!

Joy and sorrow no longer twain,

Hope and despair in one wild strain,

And the night has found a voice.

—Isabella T. M. Blake.