After the sun, the twilight; and after the dusk, the night;
And then, through the silent sky where the moon moves still and white,
The under-voices of Earth steal up to the utmost height.

First is a voice of striving—the cry of a giant, bound,
Trampling and straining his fetters, with low, half-articulate sound;
That is the cry of the city—the sob of the stifled ground.

The second is eerie and yearning; it rises in fulness, and thrills—
Then melts into murmuring echoes, and whispers to silence, and stills;
That is the cry of the forest—the call of the tree-girt hills.

The third is resounding in power—the deepest, most full of the three;
It chants, in the rhythm of the ages, the visions of æons to be;
Ceaseless, but restful forever—and that is the voice of the sea!