  What is this that subtly stealeth Over my soul to-day, Just as the last sweet day of summer Fleeth swiftly away. Weird and strained is this tender silence That broodeth o’er the lea, Over the streams and lonely woodlands, And along the shrouded sea. The fields are shorn of their golden yield, The harvest time is o’er, And the last sweet day of the summer Is gone for evermore. I hear only the crickets chanting A ceaseless, haunting strain, And the plaint of the wandering winds Filling my heart with pain. Regret for the past that was so fair Steals back with phantom tread, With beautiful dreams and faces dear Hid with the silent dead. And I bow in tender reverence Beside their sacred tomb; My soul is full of a fond desire For rest, sweet rest, and home. But still in these mystical dreamings Comfort and strength is given; These soulful, loving, and tender thoughts Bring us nearer heaven. And nature is full of subtle charms That speak to the soul alone; And they soothe and purify and bless, Nearing the setting sun. |
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