  It was on a midsummer night, Now long ago, In the far-off land of Norway, I sat in an open window, And dreamed. The valley and hills and distant mountains Were all like a dream In the soft light and wonderful calm Of the night. The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch, And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and vale Wrought with a fairy-potion, Dreams and thrills of the soul. The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fire Like pillars rose from the wooded heights To the sky cerulian, Where the evening star shone bright, Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy; It shimmered above a cataract, Whose music rose and fell Where the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord. The night had voices: Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires; Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds; Yet all was peace, and joy, and life, And mystery such as the Avon Bard Did see and hear on a Midsummer night. I was but a boy, and the names of the great Were new to me, and yet not strange,— I knew not why. That day I had read about Hugo, That he, the greatest of singers In our own day, was dead; I felt a heart-gripping sorrow, And wept as over a friend. It seemed that his spirit was there, In the dreams of that Saint John’s night, That all the fairies and flowers and streams Were greeting him with a love that had sadness, And yet which rose on the wings of gladness, Up to the stars. My soul did feel it, I know not how, That he was there, a part of it all, The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life. |
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