Sonnet

I thank ye, oh ye ever noiseless stars!
       That ye do move so silent, in your high
       Eternal marches through the voiceless sky
When Earth’s loud clamor on the spirit jars,
—The Captive’s groans, the victor’s loud huzzas,
       And the worn toilers’ deepening hunger cry,
       Then from your height ye gaze so placidly,
That the low cares whose fretful breathing scars
Life’s holy deeps, shrink back abashed before
       The love-sad meekness of your still rebuke,
And the calmed soul forgets the earthstorm’s roar
       In the deep trust of your majestic look,
Till through the heart by warring passions torn,
Some pulse of your serener life is born.