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Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife; Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet, The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower, The age-worn peasant, the sheep’s sad broken bleat – All nature groans oppressed with toil and care, And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer. At eve the babes with angels converse hold, While we to our strange pleasures make our way, Each with its little face upraised to heaven, With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call On God, the common Father of them all.
