Where the green banners of the forest float,
Where, from the Sun’s imperial domain,
Armour’d in gold, attentive to the note
Of piping birds, the sturdy trees remain,
Those never-angered armies; where the plain
Boasts to the day its bosom ornaments
Of corn and fruitage; where the low refrain
Of seaside music song on song invents,
Laden with placid thought, whereto the heart assents,
Often I wander. Nor does the light Noon,
Garrulous to man’s eye, declaring all
That Morning pale (watched by her spectre moon,
Or solemn Vesper, seated near the pall
Of Day) holds unrevealed; nor does the fall
Of curtain on our human pantomime,
The sweeping by of Day’s black funeral
Through Night’s awe-stricken realms, with tread sublime,
Chiefly delight my heart; beauty pervades all time.
Morning: the Day is innocent, and weeps;
Noon: she is wedded and enjoys the Earth;
Evening: wearied of the world she sleeps.
Night watches till another Day has birth.
The innocence of Morning, and the mirth
Of Noon, the holy calm of Eventide,
The watching while Day is not, there is dearth
Of joy within his soul who hath not cried:
“I welcome all, O God,—share all Thou wilt provide!”