  Down in the night I hear them: The Voices—unknown—unguessed,— That whisper, and lisp, and murmur, And will not let me rest.— Voices that seem to question, In unknown words, of me, Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreams Of this and the World to be. Voices of mirth and music, As in sumptuous homes; and sounds Of mourning, as of gathering friends In country burial-grounds. Cadence of maiden voices— Their lovers’ blent with these; And of little children singing, As under orchard trees. And often, up from the chaos Of my deepest dreams, I hear Sounds of their phantom laughter Filling the atmosphere: They call to me from the darkness; They cry to me from the gloom, Till I start sometimes from my pillow And peer through the haunted room; When the face of the moon at the window Wears a pallor like my own, And seems to be listening with me To the low, mysterious tone,— The low, mysterious clamor Of voices that seem to be Striving in vain to whisper Of secret things to me;— Of a something dread to be warned of; Of a rapture yet withheld; Or hints of the marvellous beauty Of songs unsyllabled. But ever and ever the meaning Falters and fails and dies, And only the silence quavers With the sorrow of my sighs. And I answer:—O Voices, ye may not Make me to understand Till my own voice, mingling with you, |
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