Night

The crackling embers on the hearth are dead; 
The indoor note of industry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window sill 
The small birds wait not for their daily bread; 
The voiceless flowers—how quietly they shed 
Their nightly odours; —and the household rill, 
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill 
The vacant expectation, and the dread 
Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps; 
For all the garrulous noises of the air 
Are hush’d in peace; the soft dew silent weeps, 
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair—
Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps 
To her soft heart, to find my image there.