The day’s loud footfalls die away,
And stealing forth from her retreat
Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray
Glides softly down the busy street.
With healing touch her gentle hand
Rests on the city’s fevered brow;
Its throbbing pulse is quiet now,
And peace descends on the weary land.
Since morn the dull December sky
Has wept and moaned incessantly;