Thy airs of gold,
That over all the plain,
And fields of ripened grain,
A shimmering glory hold,—
The soft fatigue-dress of the drowsy sun;
Dreaming, as one who goes
To peace, and sweet repose,
After a battle hardly fought, and won:
Even so, my heart, to-day,
Dream all thy fears away.
O happy tears,
That everywhere I gaze,
Jewel the golden maze,
Flow on, till earth appears
Worthy the soft perfection of this scene:
Beat, heart, more soft and low,
Creep, hurrying blood, more slow:
Waste not one throb, to lose me the serene,
Deep, satisfying bliss
Of such an hour as this!
How like our dream,
Of that delightful rest
God keepeth for the blest,
This lovely peace doth seem;—
Perchance, my heart, He sent this gracious day,
That when the dark and cold,
Thy doubtful steps enfold,
Thou, may'st remember, and press on thy way,
Nor faint midway the gloom
That lies this side the tomb.
All, all in vain,
Sweet day, do I entreat
To stay thy wingéd feet;
