by William Allingham
Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
Voices I hear;
I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
Wavering by on the dusky blast, –
“Come, let us go, for the night is falling;
Come, let us go, for the day is past!”
Troops of joys are they, now departed?
Wingèd hopes that no longer stay?
Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
Powers that have linger’d their latest day?
What do they say?
What do they sing? I hear them calling,
Whispering, gathering, flying fast, –
“Come, come, for the night is falling;
Come, come, for the day is past!”
Sing they to me? – “Thy taper’s wasted;
Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted;
Time is ending; – we go! we go!”
Sing they so?
Mystical voices, floating, calling;
Dim farewells – the last, the last? –
“Come, come away, the night is falling;
Come, come away, the day is past!”
See, I am ready, Twilight Voices;
Child of the spirit-world am I;
How should I fear you? my soul rejoices.
O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
Fain would I fly!
Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
Out of the dimness vague and vast? –
Lift me, take me, – the night is falling;
Quick, let us go, – the day is past!