Impromptu

(On being asked for some verses.)

I love the silver dawn of night
That melts the dark away;
The ecstacy of pallid light
That bathes the ended day;

When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees
Begin to talk anew;
And that sweet almoner, the breeze,
Fills every cup with dew;

When on the fevered brow of toil
Eve lays a soothing palm,
And whispers softly to the soul:
�This hour was made for calm.�

1876.