When heaven's dying light pierces the lush, green canopy of leaves which shade my house,
and sleepy birds, their lazy twitters sing from out their hidden nests above my head;
when all the world grows still—it's but a dream—and rest seems more than sleep, sleep more than death . . .
Perhaps, I muse, I taste heaven, that here's the hope of my eternal home.
When life is grey with storm and rain, and rushing wind throws all the trees from side to side;
when everything is howling mad; when floods are rising in the streets; when it gets dark . . .
Perhaps, I muse, God's found here too, and beauty's in His peace and wrath.
Tale Told 