STANZAS FOR EVENING.
There is an hour when leaves are still and winds sleep on the wave;
When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath found a grave,
And stars, that at the note of dawn begin their circling flight,
Return, like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs of night.
The curtains of the mind are closed and slumber is most sweet,
And visions to the hearts of men direct their fairy feet;
The wearied wing hath gained a tree, pain sighs itself to rest,
And beauty's bridegroom lies upon the pillow of her breast.
There is a feeling in that hour which tumult ne'er hath known,
Which nature seems to dedicate to silent things alone;
The spirit of the lonely wakes as rising from the dead,
And finds its shroud adorned with flowers, its night-lamp newly fed.
The mournful moon her rainbow hath, and 'mid the blight of all
That garlands life some blossoms live, like lilies on a pall;
Thus while to lone Affliction's couch some stranger joys may come,
The bee that hoardeth sweets all day hath sadness in its hum.
Yet some there are whose fire of years leave no remembered spark,
Whose summer time itself is bleak, whose very day breaks dark.
The stem though naked still may live, the leaf though perished cling,
But if at first the root be cleft, it lies a branchless thing.
And oh! to such long, hallowed nights their patient music send:
The hours like drooping angels walk, more graceful as they bend;
And stars emit a hope-like ray, that melts as it comes nigh,
And nothing in that calm hath life that doth not wish to die.
