In Highland and Meadow,Op.98

Angel spirits of sleep,
White-robed, with silver hair,
In your meadows fair,
  Where the willows weep,

And the sad moonbeam
On the gliding stream
  Writes her scatter'd dream:

Angel spirits of sleep,
Dancing to the weir
In the hollow roar
  Of its waters deep;

Know ye how men say
That ye haunt no more
Isle and grassy shore
  With your moonlit play;

That ye dance not here,
White-robed spirits of sleep,
All the summer night
  Threading dances light?

In the [highlands, in]1 the country places,	
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,	
    And the young fair maidens
        Quiet eyes;
Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses
    Her more lovely music
        Broods and dies —

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
    And the low green meadows
        Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
    Lo, the valley hollow
        Lamp-bestarr'd!

O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
    Through the trance of silence,
        Quiet breath!
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
    Only winds and rivers,
        Life and death.