What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?

Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place

Of ancient secrets,—gray and ghostly gulf

Cleft in the green of this high forest land,

And crowded in the dark with giant forms!

Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?

 A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound Broods over thee: a living silence breathes Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss. The morning-stars that sang above the bower Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet, Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee! She peers into thy depths with silent prayer For light, more light, to part thy purple veil. O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,— Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!

A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound

Broods over thee: a living silence breathes

Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss.

The morning-stars that sang above the bower

Of Eden, passing over thee, are dumb

With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn

Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet,

Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!

She peers into thy depths with silent prayer

For light, more light, to part thy purple veil.

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