No time is this for hands long overworn

To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise

Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain

Of years that did the work of centuries

Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more

Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters

Make glad their nooning underneath the elms

With tale and riddle and old snatch of song,

I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn

The leaves of Memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'er

Old summer pictures of the quiet hills,

And human life, as quiet, at their feet.

From John Greenleaf Whittier: Selected Poems (American Poets Project). Published by Library of America, 2004.