Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/310



I hear ye come! I hear your sounding wings Beat the impassive air with mighty strokes, And in the flickering moonshine I can see Your shadowy limbs, descending like a mist Of fleecy whiteness, on the slumbering earth. And now I hear the mingled harmonies Of all your voices, fill the vaulted sky. Ye call upon me—and my soul is glad To meet you on your pilgrimage, and join Its feeble echoes to your mighty song.