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A SUMMER NIGHT.
27
What sounds are those floating on wings of the blast?
The Spirits of Midnight are chaunting the words,
The wind of the desert is striking the chords.
The meteors of heaven illumine the sky,
And the voice of the pine tree is lost in a sigh.
From nests in the branches, the fond turtledoves
Are warbling to heaven their infinite loves.
We wandered together, Louise, all the way,
And surely you knew what my heart had to say.
The night air was stirring, it rustled the trees,
Our foreheads were fanned by the scent-laden breeze,
Which sprinkled the dew-drops o'er meadow and lea,
And crept o'er the lakelet, to die in the sea.
