No barren silence, nay, but such as over
Lips that we love its spell may fling,
Where tender words like nested swallows hover,
Ere they take wing.
Sometimes from that far land there comes a breeze,
Soft airs surprise us on our way,
As dew-drops from above; then on our knees
We fall and pray.
And oft in some low crimson coast of cloud
We deem we see its far-off strand: