At Rest

Shall I lie down to sleep, and see no more
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky —
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die —
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?

Nay! I shall be, in my low silent home,
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware —
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care —
At rest — at rest! What better thing to say?
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