AT NIGHT.
When sinks the sun a globe of gold
Across the ocean’s breast,
And night doth all the world enfold,
My spirit will not rest.
And forth it speeds without a sound,
For nought can bind my will.
The moonbeams cast a halo round,
And everything is still.
Once more I tread the flowery field
As in the days of yore,
My beating heart doth almost yield
When near the garden door.
There stand the stately old elm trees
Which once my childhood knew,
The tulips bend unto the breeze,
The fountain plashes, too.
I hear the silvery laughter float
From out the cool, dim hall,
I hear my brothers’ merry shout
As they each other call.
I stand within the ancient room
I see the books so rare,
And smell the olden rich perfume
Of roses clustering there.
And I become a child again,
And listen to the prayer
My father breathes, like a refrain,
Which all our beings stir.
And from the stairs, so black with age
The mullioned windows view,
Through which once gazed some vanished sage
The while he pensive grew.
Its leaden panes with vitreous eyes
Look over o’er the sea,
Which there in rolling grandeur lies,
God’s moving mystery.