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,—
Her gift of rest, for all to share.
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.