On The Evening Of A Villiage Festival. Poem by Henry Alford

While our shrub--walks darken,
And the stars get bright aloft,
Still we sit and hearken
To the music low and soft;
By the old oak yonder,
Where we watch the setting sun,
Listening to the far--off thunder
Of the multitude as one:

Sit, my best beloved,
In the waning light;
Yield thy spirit to the teaching
Of each sound and sight:
While those sounds are flowing
To their silent rest;
While the parting wake of sunlight
Broods along the west.

Sweeter 'tis to hearken
Than to bear a part;
Better to look on happiness
Than to carry a light heart:
Sweeter to walk on cloudy hills
With a sunny plain below,
Than to weary of the brightness
Where the floods of sunshine flow.

Souls that love each other
Join both joys in one;
Blest by other's happiness,
And nourished by their own:
So with quick reflection,
Each its opposite
Still gives back, and multiplies
To infinite delight.