ODE TO SILENCE
O thou, sublime, who on the throne
Of eyeless Night sat, awful and alone,
Before the birth of Cronos,—brooding deep
Upon the voiceless waters which asleep
Held all things circled in their gelid zone:
O Silence! how approach thy shrine
Nor falter in the listening void to raise
A mortal voice in praise,
Nor wrong with words such eloquence as thine?
Amid the fragrant forest hush,
The nightingale or solitary-thrush
May, on thy quiet breaking, give no wound;
For they such beauty bring as all redeems,
Nor fear to interrupt thy dreams
Or trouble thy Nirvana with a sound!
And though more fitting worship seem the breath
Of violets in the sequestered wood,
The zephyr that low whispereth
To the heart of Solitude,
The first unfolding of the bashful rose
That noiseless by the wayside buds and blows;
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