Poems (Kimball)/"Peace, Troubled Soul"

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"PEACE, TROUBLED SOUL."
 SWEET grows the world to-day and fair,Seen through the Spring-time's lovely sheen—A tender mist of golden-green  That veils the earth and fills the air.
 And lightly, softly blows the breeze, With blossom-odors interblent, And interwoven with their scent  The murmurous hum of golden bees.
 And mingling with their braided balm, A voice of dreamy sweetness near Half sings, half sighs, in plaintive cheer,  A strain that linketh calm with calm.
 On Nature's heart mine own I rest;"Peace, troubled soul," she soft entreats: "Peace, troubled soul," the voice repeats,  In the low psalm that suits me best.
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 And through the mist of faith I see A vision fair of One who stands And stretches out His piercèd hands,  Saying, "My peace I give to thee."
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