Sweet are the silent places of the earth,
Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass,
Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass,
Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth.

Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings.
Stretching above the silent palisade,
Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade.
O'er which the dusk still hangs with starht wings.

The hush of mid-day in the languid south.
Where marble borders rim the limpid pools.
In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools
Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth.

And above all things, silent and at rest,
I mind me of a little quiet bay,
Set like a sapphire in the golden day.
With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast.

Oh ! happy waters of that quiet bay.
So near my heart—and yet so far away !