Advertisement

AT REST.

WHERE the wild winter winds sound loud

Thro' turrets of the castled trees,

Dreamless beneath a stainless shroud,

She rests at last in unmarr'd peace.

What matter tho' the slow moon rise?

Advertisement

It will not reach her where she lies.

If that unbroken sleep be sweet,

I shall not wake her when I tread

The brown earth at her moveless feet,

Or touch the gray stone at her head;

Under the canopy of death

She stirs no more at mortal breath.

The brown eyes see no more the sun;

No more the brown curls kiss the dews;

Fold the white hands : her task is done :

God hath for her an holier use.

Yet in some undream'd future He

May give her pure love back to me.

F.

Advertisement