The Murmured Song Died On My Lips; Scarce Breathing, Motionless I Stood; So Strange That Splendour Was!

So deep A silence held the wood!

The blood rushed to and from my heart, Now felt like ice, now fire in me, Till putting forth my hands, I cried, "O let me hear and see!"

But even as I spake, and gazed Wide-eyed, and bowed my trembling knees, The glory and the silence passed Like lightning from the trees.

And pale at first the sunlight seemed When it was gone; the leaves were stirred To whispered sound, and loud rang out The carol of a bird.

End of A Traveller in Little Things, by W. H. Hudson

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