NOCTURN.II.
Dear night, from the hills return!
Darkness hath passed away,
And I see the flush of morning burn,
Red o'er the mountains gray.
My life is like a song
That a bird sings in its sleeping,
Or a hidden stream that flows along
To the sound of its own soft weeping.
Darkness hath passed away,
And I see the flush of morning burn,
Red o'er the mountains gray.
My life is like a song
That a bird sings in its sleeping,
Or a hidden stream that flows along
To the sound of its own soft weeping.
Sunlight is made for care,
For the weary languid day;
When the locust cymbals beat the air,
And the hot winds cease to play.
But night rolls dark and still,
Oblivion's fabled river,
In whose sweet silence the restless will
Sleeps, and would sleep forever.
For the weary languid day;
When the locust cymbals beat the air,
And the hot winds cease to play.
But night rolls dark and still,
Oblivion's fabled river,
In whose sweet silence the restless will
Sleeps, and would sleep forever.
Shrill in the rustled maize
The boding cricket cries;
The boding cricket cries;
