II. A Voice

Oft in the dumb hour that precedes the dawn,
Before the cock crows to the waning stars,
When men sleep soundest, and the world is still,
A voice of strangest import came to me—
A welcome, but an awful voice. It came
From hills and green lanes, woods and dewy lawns;
It breathed of innocent pleasures, now not known,
Or, known, not loved; of feverish regret
For things perchance but little valued then,
Now lost for aye, and bitter to the heart;
It was a moaning and a warning voice;
A moan for Eden lost, a boding vague
Of coldness coming on, as if it said,
“God’s Spirit will not always strive with flesh.”