The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no winds are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye- And weep above a nameless grave! They wave-from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:-from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Of his voice all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiades, even, Which were seven), Pauses in Heaven. "And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures."-KORAN. |