  T THE morning hours are joyful fair, With call of bird and scent of dew; And blent with shining gold and blue And glad the summer noontides are; The slow sun lingering seeks the west, As loath to leave and grieve so soon The long and fragrant afternoon; But still the evening is the best. Day may be full as day may be,— Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyes Alight with joyful prophecies; But still we turn where wistfully The veilÈd evening, dimly fair, Stands in the shadow without speech, And holds her one gift out to each,— Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glow On silver hairs, all peaceful bent To catch the last rays, and content To watch the twilight softly grow; Content to face the night and keep The peaceful vigil of the eve, And like a little child to breathe A “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day! Which thinks of morn without regret; Which thinks of busy noon, and yet Grieves not to put its toils away; Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest, Watches the sweet, still evening fade, Counting its hours all unafraid,— Surely the evening is the best. |
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