Written in a Season of Public Disturbance

Calm is the sky : the trees are very calm.
The mountains seem as they would melt away,
So soft their outline mingles with the day.
Surely no sound less holy than a psalm
Should interrupt the stillness and the balm
Of such a morn, whose' grave monastic grey
Clothes the meek east in garment meet to pray
With sweet humility, without a qualm.
And yet, even now, in this most blessed hour,
Who knows but that the murderous shot is sped
In the fell jar of poverty and power ?
The man but now that lived, may now be dead.
Has Nature of her human brood no care.
That on their bloody deeds she smiles so fair ?