What are the whispering voices
That awake at twilight fall?
Do they come from the golden sunset
With their haunting, haunting call?
They tell me of breezy spring-times,
And of dreamy summer eves,
And of snow-wreaths merrily shaken
From the shining ivy leaves.
But the far-off treble changeth
To a tenor tone, and so
I know that the voices tell me
Only of long ago.
What are the tuneful voices
That of early dawn are born?
Do they come from the orient portals
Of the palace of the morn?
They tell of a golden city,
With pearl and jasper bright,
And of shining forms that beckon
Out of the dazzling light.
Then a rush of far-off harpings
Blends with the vision clear,
And I know that the night is passing,
And I know that the day is near!
