Like the sweet melody which faintly lingers Upon the wind-harp's strings at close of day, When gently touch'd by evening's dewy fingers It breathes a low and melancholy lay; So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth; And while its magic spell is round me cast, My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, And vaguely blends the future with the past.
— EMMA CATHERINE EMBURY