Page:Forget Me Not 1839.pdf/3



Through the dim and lonely forest Comes a low sweet sound, Like the whispering of angels To the greenwood round, Bearing through the hours of midnight, On their viewless wings, Music in its measure telling High and holy things.

On the grass the dews unbroken In their silver lie, And the stars are out in thousands On the deep blue sky; Bright as when the old Chaldeans Held them as the shrine Where was kept the varying fortune Of our human line.