  Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere, Breathing comfort and ghastly fear, Voices I hear; I hear strange voices, flitting, calling, Wavering by on the dusky blast,— 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling; Come, let us go, for the day is past!' Troops of joys are they, now departed? Winged hopes that no longer stay? Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted? Powers that have linger'd their latest day? What do they say? What do they sing? I hear them calling, Whispering, gathering, flying fast,— 'Come, come, for the night is falling; Come, come, for the day is past!' Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted; Mortal, thy sands of life run low; Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted: Time is ending;—we go, we go.' Sing they so? Mystical voices, floating, calling; 'Come, come away, the night is falling; Come, come away, the day is past.' See, I am ready, Twilight voices! Child of the spirit-world am I; How should I fear you? my soul rejoices, O speak plainer! O draw nigh! Fain would I fly! Tell me your message, Ye who are calling Out of the dimness vague and vast; Lift me, take me,—the night is falling; Quick, let us go,—the day is past. William Allingham |
|
