ENVOY

In robes of laughter and of song, In duffle gray of daily word, Or borne on radiant plumes along, The Sylvan Voices still are heard. You hear them when the throstles sing, And when the shimmering rain-drops dance By flowery marges of your spring, To catch the Naiad’s captive glance. I hear them in the Clara-call, The Sylvia-note, the Ellen-name, When ringing echoes rise and fall, And Youth rides lilting, “Hey for hame!” Sometimes you know not they are near, Until your sudden tear shall start, To list them, quiring silver-clear Within the lily’s golden heart. Perchance, fleetfoot, at pearl of dawn They leave a dimple in the grass, A little laughter on the lawn; Then light as thistledown, they pass. They gather in cathedral aisle To kneel with you upon the stones; They whisper with your prayers awhile, Then soar aloft in organ-tones. To-day they sing dear dooryard things— The branch, the bird, the honeybee; To-morrow sees them spread their wings August, in God’s immensity: And oh, however far they fly, The Voices come—they never fail— When the rapt rainbow rides the sky Past Dingleton, past Maryvale!