The voices of the whispering woods are still;
No truant brook runs chattering to the stream;
Like heaven's own likeness mirrored in a dream.
The sea coils round each jutting rock and hill.
Nay, hark! what faint aerial harpings thrill
The lonely bay; vrhat choral voices seem
To float around and melt like rolling steam
On air as quiet as a windless mill.
No holy chant in hushei cathedral naves
Had ever such unearthly harmony.
As these mysterious chords ineffable
That peal from organ-pipes of fluted caves.
Reverberate in hollow mountan shell,
The music of the everlasting sea.