150
THE EVENING HOUR.
There is unfailing comfort to be found
In quiet country ways when shadows run
Athwart green pastures with the setting sun,
And coming harvests everywhere abound;
The singing streams half-hidden in the ground,
The orchard slopes, the kine that one by one
Go home for milking now the day is done,
All speak of homes with peace and plenty crowned.
More reconciling thoughts come to the mind
At such an hour; we feel the recompense
Of honest toil—draw nearer to our kind
In spiritual sympathy, and in the sense
Of some enfolding Care that dwells behind
The fixed, dividing walls of circumstance.
