The Voice

I left, as lost she dwelleth here, And sought for voice in skyscape clear, When close upon dusk’s gentle stroke, A whisper stays where solemn folk

Pass, ever yearning, tread the vale, To find the life in grit and hail, Thus bid I forth, ‘neath moonlit throng, Hearing the silence melt in song.

For now the wind has roused a thought, Which knows, as if in destined ought, That every heart may wait a while, Behind its eyes to see and smile.

• Thomas Hardy