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[165]
     As beautiful her mornings break,
As fair her evenings fall.

Love watches o'er my quiet ways,
     Kind voices speak my name,
And lips that find it hard to praise
     Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will!
     How fields, once lost or won,
Now lie behind me green and still
     Beneath a level sun!

How hushed the hiss of party hate,
     The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate
     Flow into rhythmic song!

Methinks the spirit's temper grows
     Too soft in this still air;
Somewhat the restful heart foregoes
     Of needed watch and prayer.

The bark by tempest vainly tossed
     May founder in the calm,
And he who braved the polar frost
     Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years
     The outflung heart of youth,
Than pleasant songs in idle ears
     The tumult of the truth.

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