TO J. C. D.
There are murmurs round me stealing, murmurs of the glad and gay,
Like the distant sound of music, floating up the azure way,
Catching sweetness in the valley, gathering beauty on the hill,
And, when melted into distance, playing through our bosoms still.
Like the distant sound of music, floating up the azure way,
Catching sweetness in the valley, gathering beauty on the hill,
And, when melted into distance, playing through our bosoms still.
For they come like old companions, with thy sweet familiar name,
Yet to tell me they are faithful; as when first of old they came,
To my weary heart to cheer me, when the wild and willful bird
Of glad song had hushed her music, and her voice no more was heard.
Yet to tell me they are faithful; as when first of old they came,
To my weary heart to cheer me, when the wild and willful bird
Of glad song had hushed her music, and her voice no more was heard.
They have floated through my bosom, lovely forms they have defined,
Claiming richest gifts of person, and most glorious ones of mind,—
Claiming richest gifts of person, and most glorious ones of mind,—
