Calm on the bosom of thy God

In the busy haunts of men.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,— Part of the brim was gone: Yet still I wore it on.

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung his tassels forth.