James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)

(To Thomas Barnes, Esq.)

DEAR BARNES, whose native taste, solid and clear,

The throng of life has strengthened without harm,

You know the rural feeling, and the charm

That stillness has for a world-fretted ear:

’T is now deep whispering all about me here,

With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm

Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm,

Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.

This charm our evening hours duly restore,—

Naught heard through all our little, lulled abode,

Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turned o’er,

Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road.

Wants there no other sound then?—Yes, one more,—

The voice of friendly visiting, long owed.