V

There are no clouds that drift around The moon’s pearl-kindled crystal, (white As some sky-summoned spirit wound In raiment lit with limbs of light), That have not softened like the sound Of harps when Heaven forgets to smite.

The vales are deeper than the dark, And darker than the vales the woods That shadowy hill and meadow mark With broad, blurred lines, whereover broods Deep calm; and now a fox-hound’s bark Upon the quietude intrudes.

And though the night is never still, Yet what we name its noises makes Its silence:--now a whippoorwill; A frog, whose hoarser tremor breaks The hush; then insect sounds that fill The night; an owl that hoots and wakes.

They lean against the gate that leads Into the lane that lies between The yard and orchard; flowers and weeds Smell sweeter than the odors keen That day distils from hotness; beads Of dew make cool the gray and green.

Their infant sleeps. They feel the peace Of something done that God has blessed, Still as the pulse that will not cease There in the cloud that lights the west: The peace of love that shall increase While soul to soul still gives its best.