The soul is in eyes that are dry of tears.
Quiet thy heart, since others are loving;
Still thy soul, for the sky is vast;
Rest thy limbs from the stale earth roving,
Plow in the furrow thy lot is cast:
So, when the Spring all the earth is moving,
A flower may fall to thy feet at last.
Charles the King at the block stood biding
The blow that set him at peace with man,
Weary of life, of the crowd deriding,