THE TENT OF NOON.
BEHOLD, now, where the pageant of high June Halts in the glowing noon! The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; The bannered hosts are still, While over forest crown and mountain head The azure tent is spread.
The song is hushed in every woodland throat; Moveless the lilies float; Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea Sighs only fitfully; The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; Peace on the world is laid.
It is the hour when Nature's caravan, That bears the pilgrim Man Across the desert of uncharted time To his far hope sublime, Rests in the green oasis of the year, As if the end drew near.
Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise For these fleet halcyon days? — No courage to uplift thee from despair Born with the breath of prayer? Then turn thee to the lilied field once more! God stands in his tent door.