Evening
So calm the air; the sunset's dying beat
Wafts slowly to me from the distant brim
Of silent waters; evening shadows dim
Press close the day's spent hours, loath to greet
The veiled advance of night; slumbering sweet
The stillness as the purple threads the rim
Of yonder crimson, preluding a hymn
Of choral wavelets silvering at my feet.
O restful solitude! Here life's frail trust
Grows, nurtured near the heart of mystery,
Expands into fruition, from the clod
Of cynic trappings, orbs to symmetry—
The place where light strikes through Time's circling dust,
And reverent hush attends the tread of God.
In a Beloved Home
(To W. H. G.)
Without, the heavy vapors in an endless train
Along the river's gorge drag wearily.
Autumn has fled, and winter's mastery
Takes votive tribute from his white domain;
The Northern winds unleashed bring in the rain
Which, blending at the night's austerity,
Turns into hail and white-flaked fantasy
That weirdly haunt the streaming window-pane.
Within, a peace that only heaven sends
To men who, pilgrims though they be, yet know
Life's simple gifts—a home, the heart of friends,
The company of the past; a fragrant briar;
All these were ours, for in the hearth's rich glow
Even Hamlet came and brooded on the fire.