Impromptu.

I love the silver dawn of night That melts the dark away; The ecstacy of pallid light That bathes the ended day; When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees Begin to talk anew; And that sweet almoner, the breeze, Fills every cup with dew; When on the fevered brow of toil Eve lays a soothing palm, And whispers softly to the soul: “This hour was made for calm.” 1876.