SILENCE
O golden Silence, bid our souls be still,
And on the' foolish fretting of our care
Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!
Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill
Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill
With soft reverberations. Thou wert there,
And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair—
A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill.
Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet;
Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low
Murmur of dying winds among the trees,
And dear the music of Love's hurrying feet;
Yet only he who knows thee learns to know
The secret soul of loftiest harmonies.
And on the' foolish fretting of our care
Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!
Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill
Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill
With soft reverberations. Thou wert there,
And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair—
A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill.
Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet;
Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low
Murmur of dying winds among the trees,
And dear the music of Love's hurrying feet;
Yet only he who knows thee learns to know
The secret soul of loftiest harmonies.
