Three score and ten! The tumult of the world Grows dull upon my inattentive ear: The bugle calls are faint, the flags are furled, Gone is the rapture, vanished too the fear; The evening's blessed stillness covers all, As o'er the fields she folds her cloak of grey; Hushed are the winds, the brown leaves slowly fall, The russet clouds hang on the fringe of day. What fairer hour than this? No stir of morn With cries of waking life, nor shafts of noon— Hot tresses from the flaming sun-god born— Nor midnight's shivering stars and marble moon; But softly twilight falls and toil doth cease, While o'er my soul God spreads his mantle—peace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MINDEN HOUSE by WILLIAM BARNES DELAY by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES SATURDAY IN Y' HOLY WEEK by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A DRAMA OF EXILE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE SHEEP-HERDER by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. |