Paul Hamilton Hayne

I think, ofttimes, that lives of men may be Likened to wandering winds that come and go, Not knowing whence they rise, whither they blow O’er the vast globe, voiceful of grief or glee.

Low gurgling laughter, as sweet As the swallow's song i' the South, And a ripple of dimples that, dancing, meet By the curves of a perfect mouth

This is my world! within these narrow walls, I own a princely service.

Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour, And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined. Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power; Thoughts that ascend, like angels beautiful, A shining Jacob's ladder of the mind.