Page:Poems Kimball.djvu/228

"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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