Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Happy Evening

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The Happy Evening.
How blest is he whose tranquil mind,
 When life declines, recalls again
The years that time has cast behind,
 And reaps delight from toil and pain.

So when the transient storm is past,
 The sudden gloom and driving show'r,
The sweetest sunshine is the last,
 The loveliest is the evening hour.

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