Marshall, May 31, 1859
The meek stars are brightening up heaven's blue deep,
The low winds are rocking the flowers to sleep,
And the leaflet's soft, rustling melody seems
Like some echo that comes from a beautiful dream.
The evening has stolen the sunset's last hue,
And changed all the sky to a motionless blue,
Save where the white cloudlets their snowy fold fling
Across the deep azure, like angels on wing.
The lakelet throws back in its gentle unrest,
The light that falls soft on its billowy breast,
And it seems like another sky--calm, and as blue
As the one that bends o'er us--the stars shining through.
Each sound that breathed discord at length has grown still,
And quiet is bathing the vale and the hill.
All that breaks on the ear is a low, dreamy hum,
As sweet as the roll of the Indian drum.
As rose the pure incense from Israel's fires,
So the gold-tinted mist curls around the church spires,
And seems like that cloud--just waiting to bear
To the throne of "Our Father" the heart's evening prayer.
