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Show WHEN DAY IS HONE. Josephine Puett Spoonts. When day is done, and down the steep Of rose -bund sky, the shadows creep To nestle where the valley fair Smiled through noon's sheen of sinibright air. And wrap the drowsy folds in sleep-Then sleep-Then does a solemn essence sweep Athwart the soul, and vigil keep, As faithful mourners knee in prayer, Whin day is done. In that strange hush, dear Ood, we weep Our shattered hopes, and blindly reap The scattering grain, the wealth of tare, That, meets our hand. In weak despair We seek thy throne, as wayworn sheep, When day is done. |