 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
55
DAY AND NIGHT.
Ere wholly fails the waning light,
The moon, amid heaven's cloudy hosts
Leading the starry ranks of night,
Sends softly down her banner white,
Bringing to earth's wide isles and coasts
A blessed truce from noise and strife—
A breath-space for the inner life.
The moon, amid heaven's cloudy hosts
Leading the starry ranks of night,
Sends softly down her banner white,
Bringing to earth's wide isles and coasts
A blessed truce from noise and strife—
A breath-space for the inner life.
Sweet thoughts, by daylight banished hence,
Return to comfort and to heal
The weariness of soul and sense—
And on the lips of turbulence
The starlight sets its silver seal;
Dim pinions fan the fragrant damps,
And fire-flies trim their living lamps.
Return to comfort and to heal
The weariness of soul and sense—
And on the lips of turbulence
The starlight sets its silver seal;
Dim pinions fan the fragrant damps,
And fire-flies trim their living lamps.
The dew-born primrose bursts, and flings
Its perfume in a sudden gush;
Moths flit on silver-dusted wings,
And scores of fair and happy things
Rejoice in the harmonious hush;
A bird that dreams of carolling
Chirps faint, with head behind his wing.
Its perfume in a sudden gush;
Moths flit on silver-dusted wings,
And scores of fair and happy things
Rejoice in the harmonious hush;
56
Chirps faint, with head behind his wing.
By day the city strives and strains,
And labors in its smoke and dust
Like some great giant bound with chains,
Sore scourged with rods and racked with pains,
And doomed to servitude unjust;
But when the tiresome day goes down,
The slave may dream of throne and crown.
And labors in its smoke and dust
Like some great giant bound with chains,
Sore scourged with rods and racked with pains,
And doomed to servitude unjust;
But when the tiresome day goes down,
The slave may dream of throne and crown.
By day the vulture swoops and feeds,
And beats his fellows with his wings;
By night all violence recedes—
The whip-poor-will's mild patience pleads—
Shrilly and clear the cricket sings;
And while the stream its story weaves,
The wind talks softly with the leaves.
And beats his fellows with his wings;
By night all violence recedes—
The whip-poor-will's mild patience pleads—
Shrilly and clear the cricket sings;
And while the stream its story weaves,
The wind talks softly with the leaves.
If day be storm, and night be calm—
If day be toil, and night release—
If day be pain, and night be balm—
If day be discord, night a psalm—
If day be war, and night be peace—
If day be life, and night be death,
Why hold so dear this mortal breath?
If day be toil, and night release—
If day be pain, and night be balm—
If day be discord, night a psalm—
If day be war, and night be peace—
If day be life, and night be death,
Why hold so dear this mortal breath?
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Why plead and shudder and bewail,
When those who stand our souls most near
Slip from our clasp, and, mute and pale,
Recede behind the misty veil
That hides from us a higher sphere?
Why shrink with anguish and affright
If life be day and death be night?
Why grieve to see them pass away,
Since night is sweeter far than day?
When those who stand our souls most near
Slip from our clasp, and, mute and pale,
Recede behind the misty veil
That hides from us a higher sphere?
Why shrink with anguish and affright
If life be day and death be night?
Why grieve to see them pass away,
Since night is sweeter far than day?
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