Yet day dies gladlier when thou art still.
And I, O rare brown thrush! that idly gaze
Far down the valley’s mountain-shadowed ways—
Where bears the stream light burden of the sky,
Where day, like quiet soul, in peace doth die,
Its calm gold broken by no storm-clouds’ blaze—
Hearken, joy-hushed, thy vesper song of praise
That from yon hillside drops, strong carolling,
A living echo thereto answering,
Doubling the sweetness with the glad reply