The stress of the day is over,
And calm is the evening time;
Behind are the heights that manhood
Has scaled in its pride and prime.

At noon was the smoke of battle
Its tumult, its crash and roar;
But the boom and the musket's rattle
The veteran hears no more.

In the peace of the quiet evening,
The warfare over and done
Is the old soldier dreaming
Of victories nobly won.

Dreams he of fierce, wild charge,
The screaming of shot and shell,
The roll of drums and the shouting?
It may be — but who can tell?

Feels he the cold come creeping
With the sun so low in the west?
Nay! though his locks are frosted
The heart is warm is his breast.

Soft is the glow of the sunset,
And it touches him tenderly;
Bright was the day that is setting,
And long may the twilight be.