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