AT THE LAST | AdventAI

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Aug 21, 1893

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 19, No. 41.

AT THE LAST.

The stream is calmest when it nears the tide, The flowers are sweetest at the eventide, The birds most musical at the close of day, The saints divinest when they pass away.

Morning is holy, but a holier calm Lies folded in evening's robe of balm; And weary men must ever love her best, For morning calls to toil, but night to rest.

She comes from heaven, and on her wings doth bear A holy fragrance, like the breath of prayer; Footsteps of angels follow in her trace, To shut the weary eyes of Day in peace.

All things are hushed before her as she throws O'er earth and sky her mantle of repose; There is a calmer beauty and a power That morning knows not, in the evening's hour.

Until the evening we must weep and toil— Plow life's stern furrow and dig the woody soil— Tread with sad feet the rough and thorny way, And bear the heat and burden of the day.

Oh! when the sun is setting, may we glide, Like summer evening, down the golden tide, And leave behind us, as we pass away, Sweet, starry twilight round our sleeping clay. —Selected.