Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs, 
That waking murmur low, 
As some lost melody returning stirs 
The love of long ago; 
And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned. 
The moon is sinking into shadow-land. 

The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively, 
Wanders on restless wing; 
The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea, 
Await its answering, 
That comes in wash of waves along the strand, 
The while the moon slips into shadow-land. 

O! soft responsive voices of the night 
I join your minstrelsy, 
And call across the fading silver light 
As something calls to me; 
I may not all your meaning understand, 
But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.

Emily Pauline Johnson