Quiet Evenings

Dear Barnes, whose native taste, solid and clear, The throng of life has strengthen'd without harm, You know the rural feeling, and the charm That stillness has for a world-fretted ear: 'Tis now deep whispering all about me here With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm, Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.

This charm our evening hours duly restore,— Nought heard through all our little, lull'd abode, Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turn'd o'er, Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road. Wants there no other sound then?—Yes, one more,— The voice of friendly visiting, long owed.