POSTHUMOUS POEMS
In the soft green summer-meadows
Where the silent streams are flowing
In the happy woodland shadows
Where the softest winds are blowing,
Where amid their heapèd flowers
Children call thee soft and low,
In the hush of golden hours
Singing, Echo, Echo! where art thou?
Where the silent streams are flowing
In the happy woodland shadows
Where the softest winds are blowing,
Where amid their heapèd flowers
Children call thee soft and low,
In the hush of golden hours
Singing, Echo, Echo! where art thou?
When the wind-vext earth returneth
To the light of stormless days,
And the wide noon-splendour burneth
On the lustrous ocean-ways,
Still thou sittest weeping lowly
In the dim heart of the brakes,
In the silence wide and holy—
Echo, Echo!—which the deep wood makes.
To the light of stormless days,
And the wide noon-splendour burneth
On the lustrous ocean-ways,
Still thou sittest weeping lowly
In the dim heart of the brakes,
In the silence wide and holy—
Echo, Echo!—which the deep wood makes.
Echo, Echo! we are weary
And the forest-path is long,
And the brightest glades are dreary
If unwaken'd by thy song.
Hark! her voice afar is singing—
O our sister, where art thou?
All the joyous words are ringing;
Be with us, Echo! Echo! hear us now.
And the forest-path is long,
And the brightest glades are dreary
If unwaken'd by thy song.
Hark! her voice afar is singing—
O our sister, where art thou?
All the joyous words are ringing;
Be with us, Echo! Echo! hear us now.
Oxford.
88
