The Things of Peace
T
HESE are the things of peace: a country
lane,
A robin singing through a mist of rain,
A plow’s bright blade that slowly turns the loam,
The distant rooftree mankind calls his home,
The wholesome scent of fresh bread, brown and
sweet,
The contented happy sound of a woman’s feet,
As she goes about her tasks—the whistled score
When a man returns at nightfall to his door,
The laughter of small children, and the bark
Of a friendly dog . . . It matters not how dark
The storms of life, if men but keep in mind
The things of peace, the home-sweet ties that bind
And ever wait, unchanged, for them to find.
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