AN IMPROVISATION.

The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest!

The hours hurry on. But where is thy flight, Soft pavilion Of motionless night?

Earth gives up her trees To the holy air; They live in the breeze; They are saints at prayer!

Summer night, come from God, On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed Of eternity!