There is silence on yon fair valley,
And calm on yon purple hill:
But the trees are moaning together
With a sigh that is never still.

The wold and the fertile farmlands
Lie under a stifling haze,
And the cattle are winding slowly
Home by the well-known ways.

The world is still in the gloaming,
The winds are at rest in the fall;
And up thro' the golden twilight
Floats the chime of an evening bell.

But the trees are bending together,
And whispering each to each,
With a sorrowful rustle of branches
And a sigh that is almost speech.

And the birds in the sheltering gable
Draw closer in vague affright;
For the heart of the earth is heavy
With the storm that will come to-night.