When day has let her fires burn down

To glowing embers in the west,

And busy Care, with folded hands,

Forgets her toil and drops to rest;

When shadowy pictures come and go,

As twilight deepens o’er the plain,

And dewy silence, breathing balm,

Revives the drooping leaves again,

How sweet to worn and troubled hearts

The falling shade, the soothing power

Of ministries that nature holds

To bless us in the quiet hour.

We do not heed them in the din

Of toil and traffic on the street;

They do not linger in the halls

Where pride of wealth and fashion meet;

But, duties done, and thought released,

And daylight closing like a flower,

With home’s dear peace enwrapping all,

How precious is the quiet hour!