Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold
  Are laid along the field, and here
The silence sings, as if some old
  Refrain, that once rang long and clear,
  Came softly, stealing to the ear
Without the aid of sound. The rill
  Is voiceless, and the grass is sere,
But beauty’s soul abideth still.

Trance-like, the mellow air doth hold...