How filled with worship is the morning hour
Which brings a holy hush o’er all the earth,
When early dawn comes trailing o’er the hills
And fainting night gives to the day its birth!
When still the morning stars together sing
Nor fail as lamps of heaven to give their light.
The heart is awed in silence, and in faith
Awaits earth’s freedom from the shades of night.

The morning comes and hastens on to noon,
The day is crowded full of work and song.
Desires, morning held in buds of hope,
Bloomed brightly ‘neath the sun the road along.
The air is full of singing and there’s joy
In service, for the heart scarce feels the weight
Of burdens bravely home-since there is strength.
So bright the day—the hour seems never late.

But ere we know the shades of night come on
And drop their silent curtains over all.
The world which hitherto I knew so well
Has vanished quite and gone beyond my call.
The velvet sky is hung with quivering stars.
The beauty of the night defies all art­—
A mystic silence lives and breathes in all
And finds response within the seeking heart.

The early dawn which gave us vision clear
And taught our hearts to worship in its hush
Brought needed portion to our hungry hearts
And girded us to meet the throng and rush.
The happy hours of the day have also served­—
Like gold their wealth of privilege has been.
And now the friendly shadows of the night
Would rest us as they gently fold us in.

But it is not the morning, noon, or night
Which prompts my heart to sing to you this way.
It is the hour of dusky loveliness
Which steals upon us at the end of day.
So changing is the light, so faint and dim,
The heart is hushed and charmed in mystic power,
Rare beauty lurks in shadows everywhere.
It is of this I sing-the twilight hour.

A beauty haunts the handiwork of God­—
The rocks and trees so motionless and still,
The long, gray reaches of the restless sea,
The cool, dark wandering winds from off the hill,
The pungent smell of earth where men have plowed,
The paling light of sunset fading gray,
The forest reaching out its countless arms­—
There’s beauty here not found in light of day.

A beauty born of mystery pervades.
Distinctness is not known. I do not trace
In angles and in lines such loveliness—
To see would rob it of its hidden grace.
The dipping bat, a shadow now on wings,
Which only for a moment may be seen,
Suggests some moment which my heart has known
Now likewise lost with darkness in between.

The purple hills fast fading into night
Like giants stretch their lengths across the West,
While houselights gleaming faintly from their sides
Make friendly signs which tell of home and rest.
Like slowly moving shadows in the gloom
Half seen, the weary men are homeward bound.
The patient cattle plod along the lane.
It is the homing hour when rest is found.

Unseen, the little birds in branches dark
Have found a resting place so cool and still.
While from the dusky thicket in the glen
There comes the lonesome call of whip-poor-will.
The heart is strangely moved by loneliness
And sickens at the thought of finite things.
It hungers for the infinite and life
Which immortality alone now brings.

The little world in which I spent the day
Will-o’-the-wisp is proving now to be.
What seemed so firm and strong ‘neath noonday sun
E’en while I look now melts and fades away.
I do not find my heart grieved by the loss;
To have it back my heart no cry would give.
A secret joy is found in losing all,
For this is not the world in which I live.

I try to look beyond the purple gloom.
The dark’ning sky and wood no answer give.
How little is the life my body knows,
How infinite the One in whom I live!
The hills are dark and in the silent sky
The evening star gives out its gleaming light.
Then for a moment darkness fills the air,
And twilight hour is lost in still, blue night.