  Ah! why is it ever thus? These mystical thoughts and tears Are ever present with me As a dream for years and years. Is’t the voice of weary winds In plaint o’er the blighted lea, Rustling the autumn leaves Adown from each faded tree? Or the flight of little birds, As they pass from us away, With their sweet notes of gladness, That we miss from day to day? The crickets’ ceaseless chanting In the serried grass and flowers, Wakening olden memories Of the long, long silent hours? The sombre hues that gather O’er purpling hill and dell, The flowing stream and fountain Seem e’er haunted like a spell. And many hearts are haunted, Saddened and thoughtful grown; Dead leaves are around them lying, And the warmth of life is flown. Is it the moaning billows That surge o’er the lonely sea Whose mournful tones are ever Pleading sobbingly to me Of a brother that I loved? Lost where the wild tempest sweeps, Unfathomable and lone Is the bier where he now sleeps. And when we walk at even Along the dim-lit shore, We hear weird voices whisper, “Nevermore! no, nevermore!” There in the holy silence, Bowed to a tender power, Passionate dreams enfold us In that pale, mystical hour. We gaze far out and upward Toward God’s great vaulted dome, Where stars in their bright splendor Are gleaming one by one. They seem so pure and holy In their calm, silvery light; We feel subdued and lowly ’Neath their pathless flight. I think it is thus with us: The great Creator’s power Is ever present with us In leaf, and tree, and flower. The sighing of the lone winds, And the moaning of the sea, All join in one grand anthem Of the great eternity. |
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