Poems (Spofford)/Days of Rest
DAYS OF REST.
Still Sundays, rising o'er the world,
Have never failed to bring their calm,
While, from their tranquil wings unfurled,
On the tired heart distilling balm.
A purer air bathes all the fields,
A purer gold the generous sky;
The land a hallowed silence yields,
All things in mute, glad worship lie,—
All save where careless innocence
In the great Presence sports and plays,
A wild bird whistles, or the wind
Tosses the light snow from the sprays.
Have never failed to bring their calm,
While, from their tranquil wings unfurled,
On the tired heart distilling balm.
A purer air bathes all the fields,
A purer gold the generous sky;
The land a hallowed silence yields,
All things in mute, glad worship lie,—
All save where careless innocence
In the great Presence sports and plays,
A wild bird whistles, or the wind
Tosses the light snow from the sprays.
For life renews itself each week,
Each Sunday seems to crown the year;
The fair earth rounds as fresh a cheek
As though just made another sphere.
The shadowy film that sometimes breathes
Between our thought and Heaven disparts,
The quiet hour so brightly wreathes
Its solemn peace about our hearts.
And Nature, whether sun or shower
Caprices with her soaring days,
Rests conscious, in some happy sense,
Of the wide smile that lights her ways.
Each Sunday seems to crown the year;
The fair earth rounds as fresh a cheek
As though just made another sphere.
The shadowy film that sometimes breathes
Between our thought and Heaven disparts,
The quiet hour so brightly wreathes
Its solemn peace about our hearts.
And Nature, whether sun or shower
Caprices with her soaring days,
Rests conscious, in some happy sense,
Of the wide smile that lights her ways.