PRAISE

R. E. KEY.

When the soft falling wind has ceased to stir
The tendrils of a thousand restless trees,
When the slow humming-bee has ceased to lie
Caressingly within the clustering leaves,
When the gray twilight falls—a silver sign—
Upon the path the woodland torrent cleaves:
Then, 'twixt the parting of reluctant day
And gentle advent of approaching night,
I bow a humble head in thankful prayer
For blessings infinite.