Under the Beeches

The sibyl's speech breaks from these leafen lips,
Moved by soft airs from shadowy spaces blown:
"We rear these giant boles amid eclipse,
We workmen die, the work abides alone."
The day has met the night beneath the sky,
And the hot earth put off its robe of flame;
Sweet peace and rest come with the night-bird's cry,
Sweet rest and peace the herald stars proclaim.

'Tis very heaven to taste the wells of sleep,
The founts of supersensuous repose!--
The sibyl's rune still murmurs on the breeze,
The purple night falls thick about the trees,
And blessed stars, like lilies white and rose,
Burst into bloom on heaven's far azure deep.