The Blind Girl

The Blind Girl

Earth speaks in many voices: from the roar

Of the wild cataract, whose causeless din

Shakes the far forest and resounding shore,

To the meek rivulet which seems to win

Its modest way amid spring's pleasant bowers,

Singing its quiet song to charm earth's painted flowers.

Earth speaks in many voices: from the song

Of the free bird which soars to heaven's high porch,

As if on joy's full tide it swept along,

To the low hum that wakens when the torch

Summons the insect myriads of the night,

To sport their little hour and perish in its light.

Earth speaks in many voices: music breathes

In the sweet murmur of the summer breeze,

That plays amid the honeysuckle's wreaths,

Or swells its diapason 'mid the trees,

When eve's cold shadow steal o'er lawn and lea,

And day's glad sounds give place to holier minstrelsy.

Earth speaks in many voices: and to me

Her every tone with melody is fraught;

Her harmony of tints I may not see,

But every breath awakes some pleasant thought;

While to mine ear such blissful sounds are given,

My spirit dwells in light, and dreams of yonder heaven.

Unattributed

3:14, p. 4

1839.06.01