Poetry Archives

The clouds no more are flocking
  After the flushing sun;
Bees end their long droning,
  The bat’s hunt is begun;
And the tired wind that went flittering
  Up and down the hill
  Lies like a shadow still,
    Like a shadow still.

Who is it that’s calling
  Out of the deepening dark,
Calling, calling, calling?—
  No!—yet hark!
The sleepy wind wakes, carrying
  Up and down the hill
  A voice how small and still,
    How sweet and still!

Who is it that answers
  Out of a quiet cloud—
“Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!”
  Cried at last aloud?
My voice, my heart went answering
  Up and down the hill—
  Mine so strange and still,
    Mine grave and still.