Poem Hunter
(1848-1920 / )


Though labor may claim and cover
The best of our waking hours,
Whaterw we owe another,
We feel that the dusk is ours;
When the night-bird softly tenders
Sweet trebles in monotone,
And the king of day surrenders
To the queen of night his throne;
When the earth and sky seem lovers,
And present and past are wed,
The satisfied soul discovers
How surely God's hand hath led.
'Tis then that the heart confesses
The sins to be wiped away,
And the spirit of pardon blesses
And hallows the close of day.

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