And rock and tree flung back the light
Of all the sunset's golden gems,
As if it were beneath their right
To wear such borrowed diadems.
Low in the west gleam after gleam
Glowed faint and fainter, till the last
Made the dying day a living dream,
To last as long as life shall last.
And in the arches of the trees
The wild birds slept with folded wing;
And e'en the lips of the summer breeze
That sang all day, had ceased to sing.
And all was silent, save the rill
That rippled round the lilies' feet,
And sang, while stillness grew more still
To listen to the murmur sweet.
And now and then it surely seemed
The little stream was laughing low,
As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed
Such dreams as only children know.
So still that not the faintest breath
Did stir the shadows in the air;
It would have seemed the home of Death,
Had I not felt Life sleeping there.
And slow and soft, and soft and slow,
From darkling earth and darkened sky
Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro,
And spectral shadows flitted by.
And then, methought, upon the sward
I saw — or was it starlight's ray?
Or angels come to watch and guard
The valley till the dawn of day?
Is every lower life the ward
Of spirits more divinely wrought?
'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard
To think 'tis but a poet's thought.
But God's or poet's thought, I ween,
My senses did not fail me when
I saw veiled angels watch that scene
And guard its sleep, as they guard men.