O golden Silence, bid our souls be still,
And on the foolish fretting of our care
Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!
Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill
Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill
With soft reverberations. Thou wert there,
And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair—
A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill.
Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet;
Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low
Murmur of dying winds among the trees,
And dear the music of Love’s hurrying feet;
Yet only he who knows thee learns to know
The secret soul of loftiest harmonies.