Emily Pauline Johnson

Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,

That waking murmur low,

As some lost melody returning stirs

The love of long ago;

And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.

The moon is sinking into shadow-land.

The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,

Wanders on restless wing;

The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea,

Await its answering,

That comes in wash of waves along the strand,

The while the moon slips into shadow-land.

O! soft responsive voices of the night

I join your minstrelsy,

And call across the fading silver light

As something calls to me;

I may not all your meaning understand,

But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.

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