There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
  To the presence of night alone—
  In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
  And breathed out a blessing—and...

Poet: John Neal

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
  Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
  From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
  Stoop o’er me from above;
The calm, majestic...

  in the still, star-lit night,
By the full fountain and the willow-tree,
  I walked, and not alone—
A spirit walked with me!

  A shade fell on the grass;
Upon the water fell a deeper shade:
  Something the willow stirred,
For to and fro...

I feel the breath of the summer night,
    Aromatic fire:
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
    With tender desire.

The white moths flutter about the lamp,
    Enamoured with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing
    A...

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home;
  ’T is summer, the darkeys are gay;
The corn-top’s ripe, and the meadow’s in the bloom,
  While the birds make music all the day.
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
  All merry, all happy and...

When stars pursue their solemn flight,
Oft in the middle of the night,
A strain of music visits me,
Hushed in a moment silverly,—
Such rich and rapturous strains as make
The very soul of silence ache
With longing for the melody;

Or lovers...

Bend low, O dusky Night,
  And give my spirit rest.
  Hold me to your deep breast,
And put old cares to flight.
Give back the lost delight
  That once my soul possest,
  When Love was loveliest.
Bend low, O dusky Night!

Enfold me...

Beneath the midnight moon of May,
  Through dusk on either hand,
One sheet of silver spreads the bay,
  One crescent jet the land;
The black ships mirrored in the stream
  Their ghostly tresses shake—
When will the dead world cease to dream?...

Close on the edge of a midsummer dawn
In troubled dreams I went from land to land,
Each seven-colored like the rainbow’s arc,
Regions where never fancy’s foot had trod
Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed not strange,
At which I wondered, reasoning in...

The wintry blast goes wailing by,
  The snow is falling overhead;
  I hear the lonely sentry’s tread,
And distant watch-fires light the sky.

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom;
  The soldiers cluster round the blaze
  To talk of other...