The Symphony

Now the half-moon’s silver Hangs in the azure frames, Soft as the breath of flowers, Night’s incense on our fames. But, O my heart, how sweet The breeze that hears the white, thin Dropping of petals from the Myrtle tree, All, all the lovely scents that rise From Nature’s virgin breast!

The East wind whispers, ‘Fly, From all that barks, and blooms!’ Fleet-footed through the valleys, Where no shadow exists, and all is bloom. Haste, haste, and sew a dogwood here, Enfolding both your dreams and fears.

Hark!—the nightingale, in rapture, Sings the light-concerned soul, To our bosoms—a surpassing glory, But a slumber keeps alive—. —Sidney Lanier

• Sidney Lanier