Classic Poem

Soft days whose silver moments keep
The constant promise of the morn,
When tired equinoctials sleep,
And wintry winds are yet unborn:
What one of all the twelve more dear —
Thou truce and Sabbath of the year?

More restful art thou than the May,
And if less hope be in thy hand,
Some cares 't were grief to understand
Thou hidest, in the mother's way,
With light and mist of fairy-land
Set on the borders of the day.

And, best of all, thou dost beguile
With color, — friendliest thought of God!
Than thine hath heaven itself a smile
More rich? Are feet of angels shod
With peace more fair? O month divine!
Stay, till thy tranquil soul be mine.