The Trist of the Night by Mary C. G. Byron, read for LibraVox.org by Kristen Hughes, out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day are mingled, the voice of the night rose cold and calm. It called through the shadow-swept air, through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it thrilled, it tingled.
It summoned me forth to the wild seashore, to meet with its mystery there, out of the deep, ineffable blue, with palpit and swift repeating of gleam and glitter and opiline glow that broke in ripples of light, in burning glory it came and went. I heard, I started beating pulse by pulse, from star to star, the passionate heart of the night. Out of the thud of the rustling sea, the panting, yearning, throbbing waves that stole on the startled shore, with cool and mutter of spray, the wail of the night came fitful faint. I heard her stifled sobbing, the cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly grey into gulfs of grey.
There, through the darkness, the great world reeled and the great tides roared, assembling, murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be. There, at the limits of life we met and touched with a rapturous trembling, one with each other, I, and the night, and the skies and the stars and the sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.