I.

The storm is past: the green hill-side
Is streaked with evening gleams,
Let out through rents in yon dark cloud,
Day's last and loveliest beams.

II.

Still clings the tempest's fleecy skirt
Round Fairfield's hollow crest,
Where glorious mists in many a fold
Of wavy silver rest.

III.

Deep imaged in the lake serene
The shadowy mountains lie:
Deeper than heaven itself the blue
Of that unreal sky.

IV.

Oh! soft falls evening on the heart
With gnawing cares deprest,
Feeding on all her quiet things, —
A Sacrament of rest!

V.

Sin-blighted though we are — yet still
Upon our weary souls,
Through hills and woods, through lakes and streams,
A tide of glory rolls:

VI.

A brimming tide from heaven that flows
Of freshness and of power,
And holy strength to nerve the heart
For duty's sterner hour.