Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass ,

Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal

That grief for which the senses still supply

Fresh food; for only then, when memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain

Those busy cares that would allay my pain;

Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel

The officious touch that makes me droop again.