Page:Poems Kimball.djvu/228

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"PEACE, TROUBLED SOUL."
SWEET grows the world to-day and fair,
Seen through the Spring-time's lovely sheen—
A tender mist of golden-green
That veils the earth and fills the air.

And lightly, softly blows the breeze,
With blossom-odors interblent,
And interwoven with their scent
The murmurous hum of golden bees.

And mingling with their braided balm,
A voice of dreamy sweetness near
Half sings, half sighs, in plaintive cheer,
A strain that linketh calm with calm.

On Nature's heart mine own I rest;
"Peace, troubled soul," she soft entreats:
"Peace, troubled soul," the voice repeats,
In the low psalm that suits me best.

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