Calm Is All Nature As A Resting Wheel. The Kine Are Couched Upon The Dewy Grass; The Horse Alone, Seen Dimly As I Pass, Is Cropping Audibly His Later Meal: Dark Is The Ground; A Slumber Seems To Steal O'Er Vale, And Mountain, And The Starless Sky. Now, In This Blank Of Things, A Harmony, Home-Felt, And Home-Created, Comes To Heal That Grief For Which The Senses Still Supply Fresh Food; For Only Then, When Memory Is Hushed, Am I At Rest. My Friends! Restrain Those Busy Cares That Would Allay My Pain; Oh! Leave Me To Myself, Nor Let Me Feel The Officious Touch That Makes Me Droop Again.