Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.

When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems…

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

O'er all the hilltops Is quiet now, In all the treetops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt r…

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole.

I now leave that bed which has afforded me little rest, and eagerly seek repose in the quiet enjoyments of rural life.