Tiptoe, with finger at her lip, and rare
Red-rose mouth rounded to a song unsung,
A mute maid half a-dream her flowers among,--
Nature, whose love the loves of all men bear,
Whose eyes the eyes of all men have found fair,
Feels in the changes on her spirit rung
The melody of an unspoken tongue,
The eloquence of silence everywhere.
Hushed is the poesy of Summer flowers,
Silent the vast evangel of the stars,
And Time, whose noiseless fingers tell the hours
Like beads upon a vestal's rosary,
Hears voiceless music writ in golden bars,--
The mirth of moonlight silent on the sea.
