L. v. B. Op. 27, No. 2

Still is the night, still every living thing,
Still are winds that sweep broad heaven's face;
Still are the billowing clouds which in quick race
Have rolled upon their way—all birds that sing—
Their song is stilled; stilled now the ardent wing
Quick-beating; only with smooth silent pace
Steals o'er the slumbering earth in solemn grace
Spirit of sleep, with fantasies acling.

But yet far-off in distance infinite,
Heard but as in the passage of a dream
Sounds there the ripple of a purling stream,
Growing and gathering strength towards its goal
Rushing full bosomed in imperious might
Into the land-locked harbour of the soul.

J.C.B.