Prayer Poem by Silas Weir Mitchell
Prayer
WHEN the day is growing old
And the stars their vigils keep,
Lo, a gentle voice within
Calling to the fold of sleep.
Whither, thither, know I not:
His the silence, His the care,
When my soul is called to rest,
Shepherded by quiet prayer.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: silence
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8/28/2026 6:56:22 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
