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I. WHEN round the earth the Father’s hands | |
| Have gently drawn the dark; | |
| Sent off the sun to fresher lands, | |
| And curtained in the lark; | |
| ’Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, | 5 |
| To fade with fading light, | |
| To lie once more, the old weary way, | |
| Upfolded in the night. | |
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| If mothers o’er our slumbers bend, | |
| And unripe kisses reap, | 10 |
| In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, | |
| Till even in dreams we sleep. | |
| And if we wake while night is dumb, | |
| ’Tis sweet to turn and say, | |
| It is an hour ere dawning come, | 15 |
| And I will sleep till day. | |
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II. There is a dearer, warmer bed, | |
| Where one all day may lie, | |
| Earth’s bosom pillowing the head, | |
| And let the world go by. | 20 |
| There come no watching mother’s eyes; | |
| The stars instead look down; | |
| Upon it breaks, and silent dies, | |
| The murmur of the town. | |
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| The great world, shouting, forward fares: | 25 |
| This chamber, hid from none, | |
| Hides safe from all, for no one cares | |
| For him whose work is done. | |
| Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how | |
| A certain unknown place, | 30 |
| Or here or there, is waiting now, | |
| To rest thee from thy race. | |
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III. Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, | |
| The slow composèd breath! | |
| Not there the folding of the arms, | 35 |
| The cool, the blessèd death! | |
| That needs no curtained bed to hide | |
| The world with all its wars; | |
| No grassy cover to divide | |
| From sun and moon and stars. | 40 |
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| It is a rest that deeper grows | |
| In midst of pain and strife; | |
| A mighty, conscious, willed repose, | |
| The death of deepest life | |
| To have and hold the precious prize | 45 |
| No need of jealous bars; | |
| But windows open to the skies, | |
| And skill to read the stars. | |
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IV. Who dwelleth in that secret place, | |
| Where tumult enters not, | 50 |
| Is never cold with terror base, | |
| Never with anger hot. | |
| For if an evil host should dare | |
| His very heart invest, | |
| God is his deeper heart, and there | 55 |
| He enters in to rest. | |
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| When mighty sea-winds madly blow, | |
| And tear the scattered waves, | |
| Peaceful as summer woods, below | |
| Lie darkling ocean caves: | 60 |
| The wind of words may toss my heart, | |
| But what is that to me! | |
| ’Tis but a surface storm—Thou art | |
| My deep, still, resting sea. | |
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