It is the Quiet Hour

It is the quiet hour, when weary Day Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear, And my lone soul is wandering away To blissful scenes that are no longer near; And well-known faces seem to smile again, And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay, As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train, We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way. Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay! Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last! Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the lay That rose spontaneous in the joyous past! Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain, Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”