THERE are oracles true in the depths of the mind,
There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,
There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,
To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;
There are voices of night with a language as plain
As the accents of love or the moanings of pain,
And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,
To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.
There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,
There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,