No time is this for hands long overworn

    To task their strength； and （unto Him be praise

    Who giveth quietness！） the stress and strain

    Of years that did the work of centuries

    Have ceased， and we can draw our breath once more

    Freely and full. So， as yon harvesters

    Make glad their nooning underneath¹ the elms

    With tale and riddle² and old snatch of song，

    I lay aside grave themes， and idly turn

    The leaves of Memory's sketch-book， dreaming o'er

    Old summer pictures of the quiet hills，

    And human life， as quiet， at their feet.