Classic Poem

Our phrases fail, our very murmurs cease;
Held are our fancies in the simple thrall
Of evening's solace and the twilight's peace—
Peace and a tender hush that seems to fall
Like dark wings over all.

A low wind falters, like a breath held back;
Faint rumblings die; a distant window glows;
And even, as the hills turn softly black,
The nightingale forgets to sing, foregoes
His raptures to the rose.

And now the stillness speaks to deep and height,
And we—with breathless bird and trembling star—
Worship while Silence sings and holds the Night;
Silence, whose secret songs are fairer far
Than God's own voices are.