Night

The crackling embers on the hearth are dead ;
The indoor note of industry is still ;
The latch is fast ; upon the window sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread ;
The voiceless flowers — how quietly they shed
Their nightly odours ; — and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps ;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hush'd in peace ; the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair : —
Oh ! that I were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.