With ne’er a thought of all the journey past,
For this I know—that on one perfect day
When everything is, oh, so glad and gay,
You’ll hear and come and claim your own, at last.
Twilight
When twilight falls and all the land is still,
The purple shadows steal across the hill,
And one lone star above a pine-tree’s crest
Shines ever brighter, while from out its nest
There breaks the low cry of the whip-poor-will.