Page:Flint and Feather (1914).djvu/191



And then the sound of marching armies 'woke

Amid the branches of the soldier oak,

And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumb

The lashing storms that muttered, overcome,

Choked by the heralding of battle smoke,

When these gnarled branches beat their martial drum.

A sweet high treble threads its silvery song,

Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thin

It trills its pure soprano, light and long—

Like the vibretto of a mandolin.

The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn,

And now the music sleeps—

Its benediction falling where the dim

Dusk of the forest creeps.

Mute grows the great concerto—and the light

Of day is darkening. Good-night, Good-night.

But through the night time I shall hear within

The murmur of these trees,

The calling of your distant violin

Sobbing across the seas,

And waking wind, and star-reflected light

Shall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.