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Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall |
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Against the southern sky;
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And from the realms Of the shadowy elms, A tide-like darkness overwhelms |
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The fields that round us lie.
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But the night is fair And everywhere A warm, soft vapor fills the air |
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And distant sounds seem near;
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And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight |
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Through the dewy atmosphere.
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I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet |
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They seek a southern lea.
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I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, |
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But their forms I cannot see.
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— LONGFELLOW.
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