Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

BETWEEN the sunken sun, and the new moon,

I stood in fields through which a clear brook ran

With scarce perceptible motion, not a span

Of its smooth surface trembling to the tune

Of sunset breezes! “O delicious boon,”

I cried, “of quiet!—wise is Nature’s plan,

Who, in her realm as in the soul of man,

Alternates storm with calm, and the loud noon

With dewy evening’s soft and sacred lull:—

Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour,

And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined,

Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power,—

Thoughts that ascend, like angels beautiful,

A shining Jacob’s-ladder of the mind!”