Sank slowly down into the west;
Poor, weary Hands, your toil is done;
’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!
O weary Feet! that many a mile
Have trudged along a stony way,
At last ye reach the trysting stile;
No longer fear to go astray.
The gently bending, rustling trees
Rock the young birds within the nest,
And softly sings the quiet breeze: