My soul grows faint with fear,—
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 in-born gladdening light.
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,