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Henry Van Dyke - Ode To Peace
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I
IN EXCELSIS
Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.
  One is the mountain-height,
Uplifted in the loneliness of light
  Beyond the realm of shadows,—fine,
And far, and clear,—where advent of the night
Means only glorious nearness of the stars,
And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars
That long the lower world in twilight keep.
Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep,
For all thy cares and fears have dropped away;
The night`s fatigue, the fever-fret of day,
Are far below thee; and earth`s weary wars,
  In vain expense of passion, pass
Before thy sight like visions in a glass,—
Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep
  Across the sea and leave no trace
Of trouble on that immemorial face,—
So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight
The wounds men give, the things for which they fight!
Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,—
  A lichen clinging to the rock.
There sails a fleet upon the deep,—
        A wandering flock
Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain,
  A marble palace shines,—a grain
  Of mica glittering in the rain.
  Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled
  By voiceless winds: and far between
The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen,
  In shimmering robes of green and gold,
        And faint aerial hue
That silent fades into the silent blue.
    Thou, from thy mountain-hold,
All day in tranquil wisdom looking down
On distant scenes of human toil and strife,
All night, with eyes aware of loftier life
Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown,
Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white
Unto the harvest of the sons of light,
And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime
The few strong souls that dare to climb
The slippery crags, and find thee on the height.

II
DE PROFUNDIS
But in the depth thou hast another home,
    For hearts less daring, or more frail.
Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
      And pilgrim-souls that roam
    With weary feet o`er hill and dale,
    Bearing the burden and the heat
        Of toilful days,
      Turn from the dusty ways
To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
    Here is no vision wide outspread
Before the lonely and exalted seat
Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead,
A little cottage, and a garden-nook,
      With outlooks brief and sweet
Across the meadows, and along the brook,—
    A little stream that nothing knows
Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,—
A little field that bears a little wheat
To make a portion of earth`s daily bread.
    The vast cloud-armies overhead
    Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
    Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
Whence comes the wind nor where it goes;
Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well.
      Thy daily task is done,
And now the wages of repose are won.
Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
In open converse, bringing forth its best:
And here is music, melting every chain
      Of lassitude and pain:
And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts,—
    Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts
The soul grown weary of the waking world,
    And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,
Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,
On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.
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