Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. br The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; br The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, br Is cropping audibly his later meal: br Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal br O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. br Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, br Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal br That grief for which the senses still supply br Fresh food; for only then, when memory br Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain br Those busy cares that would allay my pain; br Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel br The officious touch that makes me droop again.