A roll of clouds like indigo

Hangs in the lower sky,

All edged above with crimson fire,

And piled up gloriously.

And far behind are flakes and flaws,

And streaks of purest red;

And feathery dashes, paling slow,

Still linger overhead.

And far, far off—how far it looks!—

The sky is green and clear,

And still in front a little flight

Of black clouds saileth near.

Oh! wondrous sight! oh! joyous hour!

Ye workmen passing by,

Why stay ye not your boisterous mirth

To gaze upon the sky?

Ye merry children playing near,

Why stop ye not your play,

To see how God with glory crowns

The closing of the day?

Oh! would that they whose weary minds

The things of sense enthral,

Upon whose lives but scanty rays

Of grace and beauty fall,—

Would that they knew what noble store

Of purest joy and love

Is given to bless the poor man’s lot,

And lift his heart above.