Low by the rising moon the village sleeps, Its dust now wearied down ;
A night of stars above it sweeps To the Unknown.
Long hushed the orchestration of the larks, The wind hath left each tree, And o'er a Western haze dim fairy barques Put out to sea.
This is the hour that tells where the spheres go, The hour when all is still, And ghosts, with measured steps and slow, Climb the steep hill ; Hour of expectancy that holds its breath, When comes, not unaware, Knock at the heart, and the spirit whispereth- Who's there ?
O Life's dim visitor I His echoes faint Die in the grass Only unburdened ghost just meant To come and pass ; Pass like the collieries in the vale below
Out of the cloud—
Who's there ? 0 Mystery ! Never to know