How secret are the goings on of night!
The moonlight is not heard; and as the leaves
Are touched by slumber, they bow gently down
Without a rustle, and the stealthy dew
Comes on them like the spirit of a dream.
The daily heat departs; the unquiet pulse
Of nature grows serener, and the wave
Of motion in all growing things is still,
While coolness circulates unheard, and rest
Steals like a feeling on the animal world.
So still art thou, O night! and yet thy voice
Hath many tones to listen, and it tells
To my unquiet wakefulness, how deep
The wisdom that has fashioned thee so well--
A beautiful and fitting time of rest.