Troops of joys are they, now departed? Winged hopes that no longer stay? Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted? Powers that have linger'd their latest day? What do they say? What do they sing? I hear them calling, Whispering, gathering, flying fast,-- 'Come, come, for the night is falling; Come, come, for the day is past!' Sing they to me?--'Thy taper's wasted; Mortal, thy sands of life run low; Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted: Time is ending;--we go, we go.' Sing they so? Mystical voices, floating, calling; Dim farewells--the last, the last? Come, come away, the night is falling; 'Come, come away, the day is past.' See, I am ready, Twilight voices! Child of the spirit-world am I; How should I fear you? my soul rejoices, O speak plainer! O draw nigh! Fain would I fly! Tell me your message, Ye who are calling Out of the dimness vague and vast; Lift me, take me,--the night is falling; Quick, let us go,--the day is past. THE LOVER AND BIRDS Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest. To every word Of every bird I listen'd, and replied as it behove. Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet! Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!' 'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear Thy darling prove no better than a cheat, And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.' Yet from a twig, With voice so big, The little fowl his utterance did repeat. Then I, 'The man forlorn Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.' 'And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'd The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn, Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft With cackling laugh; Whom I, being half Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn. Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die! Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay! Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay.) 'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why? See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!' O Thrush, be still! Or at thy will, Seek some less sad interpreter than I.