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DROWSILY
sweet at the height of day
Is the buzz of the wingèd things,
But sweeter at day's poppy-droop
The tranquil that it brings.
For
ever in the noon of life
The spirit is oppressed,
And only at life's eventide
The spirit findeth rest.
Sorrow
and Joy are the things that fly,
And Love and Hope and Fears;
But Love and Joy are there alone
At the closing of the years.
For
through the heat of the bright noonday
Into the cool of night,
Whate'er befall, Love still remains
To make night's darkness light.
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