No mortal answered, nothing stirred.

Was it uprisen death we heard?

.... Perhaps the hills and night

Had made a prophet of some wandering boy,

Prompting him in that instant to rejoice

As never in his life before.

He must have had his own delight

As well in silence as in song;

For, though we waited long,

He sang no more.

Afterward Celia said: “That voice we heard

Singing among the oak-leaves, and then still,

We cannot answer how it sings or how it comes and goes....

But only that its beauty ever grows

Within us both, in ways no voice has told.

.... So let me be to you. When night has drawn its fold

Of darkness and no word

May reach your heart from mine,

Take then my love, my beauty! Hear me still

When you are old

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