XXX

When all the labors of the day are past,
And on the world-exposed and fretted edge
Of my sad soul, like doves upon the ledge
Of yonder roof, my cares, with wings closed fast,
Doze into night; and from the future cast
Of my dark life I ask no cheering pledge,
No growing plume, hope's broken wing to fledge;
Content, if that dear hour will only last;
'Twere meet, that in this respite of the heart,
Some heavenward look, some thankful thought were given
To the great hand, that out of discord even,
Shapes my brief rest. But stubborn in the part
We ingrates play, the thoughts, that upward start,
Stoop to thy feet, and miss the way to heaven.