Three Sunsets and Other Poems

But if there be--O if there be A truth in what they say, That angel-forms we cannot see Go with us on our way; Then surely she is with me here, I dimly feel her spirit near-- The morning-mists grow thin and clear, And Death brings in the Day.

April, 1868.

[Illustration]

SOLITUDE.

I love the stillness of the wood: I love the music of the rill: I love to couch in pensive mood Upon some silent hill.

Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees, The silver-crested ripples pass; And, like a mimic brook, the breeze Whispers among the grass.

Here from the world I win release, Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude, Break in to mar the holy peace Of this great solitude.

Here may the silent tears I weep Lull the vexed spirit into rest, As infants sob themselves to sleep Upon a mother's breast.

But when the bitter hour is gone, And the ke