Oft on mine ear there com­eth,
In accents soft and low,
As when th’Æol­ian hum­meth,
Or echoes come and go,
A voice, as from the spir­its’ home,
That sweetly whispers, Pilgrim, come!

When eventide concealeth
The fading light’s retreat,
That voice upon me stealeth,
As gently and as sweet
As zephyrs through the aspen play,
And whispers, Pilgrim, come away!

As pensively I nightly
Betake me to the hill,
To listen to the sprightly
Yet plaintive whip-poor-will;
Still, echoed in her thrilling lay,
I hear the whisper, Come away!

As night apace advanceth.
Upon me all alone,
And gay the moon-beam danceth
To night-winds’ cheerless moan,
Soft through the midnight’s deepening gloom,
I hear the whisper, Pilgrim come!

When morn, in freshened beauty,
Hath signaled night away,
And I, at call of duty,
Arise to greet the day,
Still, echoed in the insects’ hum,
I hear the whisper, Pilgrim, come!

I stroll beside the river,
To breathe its balmy air,
And, in each leaflet’s quiver,
I hear it everywhere,
In echoing whispers sweetly say,
Come, weary, Pilgrim, come away!

Around me, as are falling
The voices of the past,
Sad memories recalling
Of scenes with gloom o’ercast,
Down through their corridors of gloom
In soothing tone those whispers come.

Where e’er my footstep trampeth,
In darkness or in light,
God’s angel-host encampeth
Around me day and night;
And many a time their whispers weird
Have my disheartened spirit cheered.

And as the years are going,
Those whispers nearer come,
Till I am weary growing,
And long to reach my home,
Where whispers cease, and voices blend,
And pilgrimage is at an end.

Oliver Crane
Minto and Other Poems, 1886