THE PLACE OF HIS REST
The green marsh-mallows
Are over him.
Along the shallows
The pale lights swim.
Wide air, washed grasses,
And waveless stream;
And over him passes
The drift of dream;—
The pearl-hue down
Of the poplar seed;
The elm-flower brown;
And the sway of the reed;
The blue moth, winged
With a flake of sky;
The bee, gold ringed;
And the dragon fly.
Lightly the rushes,
Lean to his breast;
A bird's wing brushes
The place of his rest.
The far-flown swallow,
The gold-finch flame,—
They come, they follow
The paths he came.
'Tis the land of No Care
Where now he lies,
Fulfilled the prayer
Of his weary eyes:
And while around him
The kind grass creeps,
Where peace hath found him
How sound he sleeps.
Well to his slumber
Attends the year:
Soft rains without number
Soft noons, blue clear,