Drop they still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
take from our souls the strain and stress,
and let our ordered lives confess
they beauty of Thy peace
Breathe through the heats of our desire
they coolness and they balm;
let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.
-John Greenleaf Whittier
this is just a portion of the poem that was in my history book
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