Thou restless voice! that wandering up and down
These forest paths, where for this many a day,
I come to dream the summer hours away—
Mak'st answer to my voice with mocking tone,
Echo! thou air-born child of harmony,
How oft in sunny field, or shadowy wood,
By lone hill-side, or cavern-cradled flood,
Have I held laughing converse, nymph, with thee.
This is thy dwelling, and along the wide
Oak-woven halls, that stretch on every side,
Murmuring sweet lullabies, I hear thee stray,
Hushing the dim-eyed Twilight, who all day,
From searching sunbeams hid in these cool bowers,
Sleeps on a bed of pale, night-blowing flowers.
Frances Anne Kemble
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-88/
