III

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III

To outer senses there is peace,

A dream-like peace on either hand,

Deep silence in the shadowy land,

Deep silence where the shadows cease,

Save for a cry that echoes shrill

From some lone bird disconsolate;

A curlew calling to its mate;

The answer from the distant hill.

And, herald of my love to Him

Who, waiting for the dawn, doth lie,

The orbèd maiden leaves the sky,

And the white firs grow more dim.