THE VOICES
Down in the night I hear them:The Voices—unknown—unguessed,—That whisper, and lisp, and murmur,And will not let me rest.—Voices that seem to question,In unknown words, of me,Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreamsOf this and the World to be.Voices of mirth and music,As in sumptuous homes; and soundsOf mourning, as of gathering friendsIn country burial-grounds.Cadence of maiden voices—Their lovers’ blent with these;And of little children singing,As under orchard trees.And often, up from the chaosOf my deepest dreams, I hearSounds of their phantom laughterFilling the atmosphere:They call to me from the darkness;They cry to me from the gloom,Till I start sometimes from my pillowAnd peer through the haunted room;When the face of the moon at the windowWears a pallor like my own,And seems to be listening with meTo the low, mysterious tone,—The low, mysterious clamorOf voices that seem to beStriving in vain to whisperOf secret things to me;—Of a something dread to be warned of;Of a rapture yet withheld;Or hints of the marvellous beautyOf songs unsyllabled.But ever and ever the meaningFalters and fails and dies,And only the silence quaversWith the sorrow of my sighs.And I answer:—O Voices, ye may notMake me to understandTill my own voice, mingling with you,Laughs in the Shadow-land.
Down in the night I hear them:The Voices—unknown—unguessed,—That whisper, and lisp, and murmur,And will not let me rest.—Voices that seem to question,In unknown words, of me,Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreamsOf this and the World to be.Voices of mirth and music,As in sumptuous homes; and soundsOf mourning, as of gathering friendsIn country burial-grounds.Cadence of maiden voices—Their lovers’ blent with these;And of little children singing,As under orchard trees.And often, up from the chaosOf my deepest dreams, I hearSounds of their phantom laughterFilling the atmosphere:They call to me from the darkness;They cry to me from the gloom,Till I start sometimes from my pillowAnd peer through the haunted room;When the face of the moon at the windowWears a pallor like my own,And seems to be listening with meTo the low, mysterious tone,—The low, mysterious clamorOf voices that seem to beStriving in vain to whisperOf secret things to me;—Of a something dread to be warned of;Of a rapture yet withheld;Or hints of the marvellous beautyOf songs unsyllabled.But ever and ever the meaningFalters and fails and dies,And only the silence quaversWith the sorrow of my sighs.And I answer:—O Voices, ye may notMake me to understandTill my own voice, mingling with you,Laughs in the Shadow-land.
Down in the night I hear them:The Voices—unknown—unguessed,—That whisper, and lisp, and murmur,And will not let me rest.—
Down in the night I hear them:
The Voices—unknown—unguessed,—
That whisper, and lisp, and murmur,
And will not let me rest.—
Voices that seem to question,In unknown words, of me,Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreamsOf this and the World to be.
Voices that seem to question,
In unknown words, of me,
Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreams
Of this and the World to be.
Voices of mirth and music,As in sumptuous homes; and soundsOf mourning, as of gathering friendsIn country burial-grounds.
Voices of mirth and music,
As in sumptuous homes; and sounds
Of mourning, as of gathering friends
In country burial-grounds.
Cadence of maiden voices—Their lovers’ blent with these;And of little children singing,As under orchard trees.
Cadence of maiden voices—
Their lovers’ blent with these;
And of little children singing,
As under orchard trees.
And often, up from the chaosOf my deepest dreams, I hearSounds of their phantom laughterFilling the atmosphere:
And often, up from the chaos
Of my deepest dreams, I hear
Sounds of their phantom laughter
Filling the atmosphere:
They call to me from the darkness;They cry to me from the gloom,Till I start sometimes from my pillowAnd peer through the haunted room;
They call to me from the darkness;
They cry to me from the gloom,
Till I start sometimes from my pillow
And peer through the haunted room;
When the face of the moon at the windowWears a pallor like my own,And seems to be listening with meTo the low, mysterious tone,—
When the face of the moon at the window
Wears a pallor like my own,
And seems to be listening with me
To the low, mysterious tone,—
The low, mysterious clamorOf voices that seem to beStriving in vain to whisperOf secret things to me;—
The low, mysterious clamor
Of voices that seem to be
Striving in vain to whisper
Of secret things to me;—
Of a something dread to be warned of;Of a rapture yet withheld;Or hints of the marvellous beautyOf songs unsyllabled.
Of a something dread to be warned of;
Of a rapture yet withheld;
Or hints of the marvellous beauty
Of songs unsyllabled.
But ever and ever the meaningFalters and fails and dies,And only the silence quaversWith the sorrow of my sighs.
But ever and ever the meaning
Falters and fails and dies,
And only the silence quavers
With the sorrow of my sighs.
And I answer:—O Voices, ye may notMake me to understandTill my own voice, mingling with you,Laughs in the Shadow-land.
And I answer:—O Voices, ye may not
Make me to understand
Till my own voice, mingling with you,
Laughs in the Shadow-land.