REST.
In deepest weariness I lay so still
One might have thought it death,
For hush of motion and a sleep of will
Gave me but soundless breath.
And yet I slept not; only knew that Rest
Held me all close to her:
Softly but firmly fettered to her breast,
I had no wish to stir.
"Oh, if," I thought, "death would but be like this!—
Neither to sleep nor wake,
But have for ages just this conscious bliss,
That perfect rest I take."
The soul grows often weary, like the flesh:
May rest pervade her long,
While she shall feel the joy of growing fresh
For heavenly work and song!
CHARLOTTE F. BATES.