Though still the wrought waves strike the shore,
Above them shrill a voice dost soar;
Or with the soft gale, falling low,
To lull the soul, sings sweet and slow,
And folds the fluttering wings of peace:
So thrilled that music through the trees;
The leaves were stirred upon the boughs,
The petals shaken from a rose,
As though a spirit moved anear.
Then from the hedge a voice broke clear:—