Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Night Whispers
NIGHT WHISPERS.
O what a night is this! The glorious stars
With their sweet, solemn gaze, seeming to look
Into our very souls. Gently! it mars
The lovely dream if even a word be spoke,
That comes not like soft music to the ear,
Murmured, and low, and making harmony
With the still music of that higher sphere—
So let no discord break the melody.
This is the hour for soul-communion meet;
For talking of dear loves and holy things;
Of themes that to the spirit are most sweet,
And for the full heart's sweet unburdenings.
I can almost imagine that my heart
Hath grown too holy for a sinful thought;
So much the gentle images that start
From past and present with this hour are fraught.
The past hath memories of the dear dreams
Of early years—of longings after love—
Something to fill the heart, to drink its streams
Of pure and earnest tenderness—inwove
With visions of the future, which were blent
Of hope and trust, the trust of our first years,
Which ne'er returns when once it hath been lent
To a false faith, to be dissolved in tears.
That glowing dream is not yet wholly fled,
But its fair hues have taken a deeper dye;
As the pale light the twilight stars have shed,
Is deepened to full radiance in the sky.
The heart still sadly longeth, and in vain;
For earth is insufficient to its love,
And many a wild and startling thrill of pain,
Its too keen sensitiveness still doth prove.
But there is such a joy, a joy so sweet—
So pure a transport in an hour like this—
When heart from heart an answering throb may meet,
In union to which silence adds a bliss;
When the soft clasp of a caressing hand,
Or the clear glance of an expressive eye,
Can make the mutual spirit understand
All the fine thoughts that in its depths may lie.
Our pleasures are so sweet that we forget
That we have grieved for suffering or sin,
And only feel a sad and soft regret
That all is not forever thus within.
O night! thy solemn beauty fills my soul
With a deep rapture, not unlike to prayer;
Delicious joy, which I would not control,
And only to be perfect need to share.
If there are hours when the soul receives
On its unwritten pages worlds of thought,
Methinks that now some spirit's spotless leaves
Full many a bright imagining hath caught;
And many a note of song, the voiceless song
Of the soul, mingled with the viewless choir
Thrilling all nature, and whose tones belong
To the great Source that nature doth inspire.