Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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Not from successful love alone,

Nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or
war;

But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm,

As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,

As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like freshier, balmier
air,

As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs
really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree,

Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!

The brooding and blissful halcyon days!

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