The day dies slowly in the western sky;
⁠The sunset splendor fades, and wan and cold
The far peaks wait the sunrise; cheerily
⁠The goat-herd calls his wanderers to the fold.
My weary soul, that fain would cease to roam,
Take comfort; evening bringeth all things home.

Homeward the swift-winged seagull takes her flight;
⁠The ebbing tide breaks softer on the sand;
The red-sailed boats draw shoreward for the night,
⁠The shadows deepen over sea and land.
Be still, my soul, thine hour shall also come;
Behold, one evening, God shall lead thee home.