by John Vance Cheney
The Isles of Quiet lie beyond the years.
Hoar prophets say it; yet, for all the tears,
I doubt the saying of the seers.
I think that whoso seeks them here shall find;
That all with open, patient heart and mind
Shall drink of peace from sun and wind;
Shall make their own the hymn of rest begun
When shadows say the summer day is done,
And sky and field are growing one.
Idler the fancy, closer it may cling;
Yet I believe the wide air's murmuring,
The sweet far song the thrushes sing.
Last updated January 14, 2019