The crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The indoor note of industry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread;
The voiceless flowers - how quietly they shed
Their nightly odours; - and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. [ Hartley Coleridge ]