GOD'S QUIET
by Amos Russel Wells
The trees are standing silent in the sun
Like priests of quietness. The river flows
Its gentle way between its bushy banks,
And seems the current of a peaceful dream.
The bird-songs melt upon the placid air,
And find a sweet solution. Hither floats
A whiff of thistledown, as lightly borne
As spirit upon spirit, as my soul,
Afloat upon the brooding thought of God.
How far away, how crudely strange and far,
The very memory of earth's unrest,
The crash of wills, the vehemence of greed.
The blare of pride and groanings of despair!
Here it is still and steady, quiet here
Because so much of God is greatly here,
So little of the littleness of man.
The mind enlarges through the waiting woods,
Expands amid the tree tops rises glad
To wander on the galleys of the clouds
Far over oceans of the upper blue
To happy continents of love and light;
Or, whimsically back withdrawn, it finds
Another world low-hidden in the grass,
A world of softest shadows, peopled full
Of busy creatures, silent and serene.
And yesterday I fretted! Yesterday,
Nay, but an hour ago, I tore my heart
With envy, sharp ambition, eating dread.
O Thou Beneficence and Beauty, Thou,
The Prince of Peace that rulest all in all,
Forgive those tumults of Thy foolish child,
And wrap me so about with quietness,
So wrap around the central soul of me,
That I may leave this pasture of Thy peace,
And enter the world's discord hearing still
The flawless armor of tranquillity.
