Poems (Eckley)/The Voice
For works with similar titles, see The Voice.
VOICE is whisp'ring through the pines, Secret to all but me;Naught can'st thou hear but quivering leaves— No words are heard by thee.
THE VOICE.
VOICE is whisp'ring through the pines, Secret to all but me;Naught can'st thou hear but quivering leaves— No words are heard by thee.The hum and din of earthly strife Ring louder on thine ear,And drown the tender words that fall On memory's sacred bier.
Long, long ago that same sweet voice Was heard upon a sea;'Twas borne on tempest through the storm, O'er waves of Galilee.
That voice is whisp'ring thro' the pines— That same sweet voice to me;It says, "Lift up thy burdened heart, Thy Saviour speaks to thee;
"Take off the withered buds that lie Faded on memory's bier,And lay fresh lilies on the pall, Nor one regretful tear;
"And bind fresh roses on thy brow, With myrtle interleaved,And amaranth and immortelle In chaplet interweaved."
And hear the voice, that thro' the pines Is speaking still to meIn whispers thro' the quivering leaves,— "My peace I give to thee."