Explore "Songs" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Be still, be still, vex not the night with sound, / The moon has laid her finger on the lake, / And in the shadows of the wood profound / There lies a peace we would profane to break.
Upon the lonely avenue of trees, / As pearls upon an airy silver string, / Are caught the threaded echoes of the breeze / That sets the ruffled leaves a-murmuring.