The Wood-Thrush

WHAT is it you are whispering, solemn woods ?
What hide and hint ye, slopes of sombre green,
Whose dark reflections blur the crimson sheen
Of the lake’s mirror, whereon sunset broods,
Trance-like and tender ? Speechless, conscious moods
Are yours, ye purple mountain shapes, that lean
Out of Day’s dying glory. What may mean
This stillness, through whose veil no thought intrudes
With earth-shod feet ? Can any voice unfold
The tremulous secret of an hour like this, So burdened with unutterable bliss ?
Oh, hush! oh, hear the soul of twilight sing!
One poet knows this mystery. Everything
The landscape dreamed of has the wood-thrush told !
Lucy Larcom.