Julia C. R. Dorr

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, That comest o'er the mountains with swift feet?

Aspirations pure and high — Strength to do and to endure — Heir of all the Ages, I — Lo! I am no longer poor!

Come, blessed Darkness, come and bring thy balm For eyes grown weary of the garish day! Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm.

O golden Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!