Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted!
’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn, gladdening light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature’s melodies estranged,