DAYS OF REST.
Still Sundays, rising o'er the world, Have never failed to bring their calm,While, from their tranquil wings unfurled, On the tired heart distilling balm.A purer air bathes all the fields, A purer gold the generous sky;The land a hallowed silence yields, All things in mute, glad worship lie,—All save where careless innocence In the great Presence sports and plays,A wild bird whistles, or the wind Tosses the light snow from the sprays.
For life renews itself each week, Each Sunday seems to crown the year;The fair earth rounds as fresh a cheek As though just made another sphere.The shadowy film that sometimes breathes Between our thought and Heaven disparts,
