  THE world may rage without, Quiet is here; Statesmen may toil and shout, Cynics may sneer; The great world,—let it go,— June warmth be March's snow, I care not,—be it so Since I am here. Time was when war's alarm Called for a fear, When sorrow's seeming harm Hastened a tear. Naught care I now what foe Threatens, for scarce I know How the year's seasons go Since I am here. This is my resting-place Holy and dear, Where pain's dejected face May not appear; This is the world to me, Earth's woes I will not see, But rest contentedly Since I am here. Is't your voice chiding, Love, My mild career, My meek abiding, Love, Daily so near?— "Danger and loss," to me? Ah, Sweet, I fear to see No loss but loss of thee, And I am here. |
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