THE HOUR OF PEACE.
IT is the hour when all is dark and still; When long despair, brief hope, alike resign Their ancient dominance of human will; When life no longer to the far sea-line Bends its gray sails, worn with the winds of ill, Seeking those unseen lands beyond the brine Which never, through the bitter foam and chill, A man shall mark, and marvel as they shine;
It is the hour of silence. No one cares To think of toil now, asking, "What is done By all our effort endlessly onstreaming?" For we are sick of mocking, sly despairs, And we would rest as if all time were gone, Filling the hour of peace with foolish dreaming.