Night Whispers

O what a night is this! The glorious starsWith their sweet, solemn gaze, seeming to lookInto our very souls. Gently! it marsThe lovely dream if even a word be spoke,That comes not like soft music to the ear,Murmured, and low, and making harmonyWith 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 heartHath grown too holy for a sinful thought;So much the gentle images that startFrom past and present with this hour are fraught.

The past hath memories of the dear dreamsOf early years—of longings after love—Something to fill the heart, to drink its streamsOf pure and earnest tenderness—inwoveWith visions of the future, which were blentOf hope and trust, the trust of our first years,Which ne'er returns when once it hath been lentTo 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 understandAll the fine thoughts that in its depths may lie.

Our pleasures are so sweet that we forgetThat we have grieved for suffering or sin,And only feel a sad and soft regretThat all is not forever thus within.O night! thy solemn beauty fills my soulWith 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 receivesOn its unwritten pages worlds of thought,Methinks that now some spirit's spotless leavesFull many a bright imagining hath caught;And many a note of song, the voiceless songOf the soul, mingled with the viewless choirThrilling all nature, and whose tones belongTo the great Source that nature doth inspire.