My soul grows faint with fear,--
Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move--the voice of God
Is in the foliage here.

Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted!
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The in-born gladdening light.

No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from Nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.

Therefore, the calm abode
By thy dark spirit is o'erhung with shade,
And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid.

The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?
Hark, hark!--it is my mother's voice I hear,
Sadder than once it seem'd--yet soft and clear--
Doth she not seem to pray?