A pause and a tremble, as of a sweet word,
Or the dream-haunted wing of a night-hidden bird
That is shaking the dew from the leaves.
Then silence, that even a word would profane—
Silence, holding some thoughts heaven-born,
That only her fingers a moment can chain;
Up, up to the skies they have wandered again,
Like a prayer holy spoken at morn.
Those soft airs she played in the dim lighted room,
With her heart in the past far away—