Morning

AS in a quiet dream,
The mighty waters seem:
Scarcely a ripple shows
Upon their blue repose.

The sea-gulls smoothly ride
Upon the drowsy tide,
And a white sail doth sleep
Far out upon the deep.

A dreamy purple fills
The hollows of the hills;
A single cloud floats through
The sky's serenest blue;

And far beyond the Gate,
The masséd vapors wait—
White as the walls that ring
The City of the King.

There is no sound, no word:
Only a happy bird
Trills to her nestling young,
A little, sleepy song.

This is the holy calm;
The heavens dropping balm;
The Love made manifest,
And near; the perfect rest.
Evening

The day grows wan and cold:
In through the Gate of Gold
The restless vapors glide,
Like ghosts upon the tide.

The brown bird folds her wing,
Sad, with no song to sing.
Along the streets the dust
Blows sharp, with sudden gust.

The night conies, chill and gray;
Over the sullen bay,
What mournful echoes pass
From lonely Alcatraz!

O bell, with solemn toll,
As for a passing soul!
As for a soul that waits,
In vain, at heaven's gates!

This is the utter blight;
The sorrow infinite
Of earth; the closing wave;
The parting, and the grave.