Classic Poem

Come , Silence, thou sweet reasoner,
Lay thy soft hand on all that stir—
On grass and shrub and tree and flower,
And let this be thine own dear hour.

No more across the neighbor rill
To that lone cottage on the hill
Shall wonder with her questions go,
Seeking if joy be there or no.

No longer shall the listening ear
Go seeking grief afar, or near;
Or eye be turned to find a stain
In the dear God's well-ruled domain.

The cricket tunes his slender throat
And lifts an early evening note.
The late bird ventures one last flight
Of song, and nestles for the night.

High up beyond the cloud-rift dun
One spot of blue yet shows the sun;
On that I fix a silent eye:
All earth, all life, all else pass by.