Come to me, shadows, down the hill
And bring with you the night,
Fire-flies and the whippoorwill
And ah, the moon—
Whose soft interpretings can still
The tangled tongues of right
And wrong, and hope and fear, that haunt the noon.
III
Come to me, shadows, down the hill—
And let there follow Sleep,
Which is God's tidal Will
That overflows
The world—obliterating ill,
And in its soothing sweep
Murmuring more of mercy than man knows.
WAVES
The evening sails come home
With twilight in their wings.
The harbour-light across the gloam
Springs;
The wind sings.
The waves begin to tell
The sea's night-sorrow o'er,
Weaving within their ancient spell
More
Than earth's lore.
The rising moon wafts strange
Low lures across the tide,
On which my dim thoughts seem to range,
Stride
Upon stride,
Until, with flooding thrill,
They seem at last to blend
With waves that from the Eternal Will
Wend,
Without end.