John Charles Earle ()
The boat is hauled upon the hardening sand,
The mist is gathering o'er the dim morass,
The kine are couching on the daisied grass,
And in their stalls the champing horses stand.
No plash of brine along the darkling strand,
No light winds play the reed-pipes as they pass;
The moonlit deep is glittering like glass,
And all things yield to stilly Night's command.
O balmy hours of silver sheen and dew!
Shall nought belie you save this labouring breast--
The soul alone to Nature be untrue,
And still of what she hath not go in quest?
Just now ye spake. Ah, speak those words anew,
"Wait, weary heart; soon thou shalt also rest."