Classic Poem

The white stars, one by one,
Lean out of their casement high;
And the lily-cup is folded up,
And the moon-clouds wander by.
Come hither, ye little wildwood things,
Unto the call the night-wind sings
Over the brooding sky.
Ours is the noon
Of the fairer moon, —
And a voice in the dark am I.

Morning will come to greet
A little new rose, I wis;
But the loving air that heard it ope
Hath welcomed it with a kiss.
And the clouds with the white up-gathering hands,
Bringing the rain from far-off lands,
They sing as they wander by:
All are awake
For singing's sake; —
A voice in the dark am I.

What shall ye hear by day?
The tread of a thousand feet.
Come but here when the night is near
And listen, and find it sweet.
The voice of the things ye dream are dumb:
The murmur of living, the waters' hum
And the growing of the grass!
Voices of all,
In the night they call:
A voice am I that pass.

The tremor of moths that flit,
The laughter of leaves that blow,
And the hurtling wings of a wind that sings,
And the bending of grass below;
The little white voice of a flower unborn
That shall not blossom for many a morn;
Yet it grows all steadfastly;
Under the night,
It feels the light
Of stars in an unseen sky.

The little hastening hare
Listens, with anxious ear,
To know if the Day be on her way,
Day that must never hear.
Chameleons shy, and the hidden bird,
The silver lizards, all these be heard
In their strange and wilding speech.
If ye but hark,
They sing at dark,
To the night that loves them, each.

Who passes beneath? Who sings?
A voice that may live or die.
Let the only thing ye know of me
Be the song that wanders by.
Come hither, ye little living things;
Sing with me now as each star sings,
Each star in the beckoning sky;
For the day must come
And we be dumb, —
And a voice in the dark am I.