Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/206

 Heart, be tranquil—the toil is done. In the midst of the morning, lo, it is evening. Rest! The Breeze, like a soft hand, soothing. Warmth, like a kind hand, caring. The sap asleep....asleep! Long was the labour, sweet is the resting. Yield, yield thee to rest!

Now, in the calm of the gathering dusk, At the outer gate, at the outermost gate, As a cloud in a windless sky, Standeth my spirit, alone. The stars are silent, The forest silent, The air silent— Hush! In the ruin’d wharés within, all is still, still.... For all are fallen asleep:— The dancer Delight, at the side of the warrior, Anger, Want, forgetful of woe, Triumph without her song, Fear with her eyes at peace. They have done their deeds, their deeds are all done, And I prithee, awake them not—they are noisy, awaked. Sleep!....Sleep!....Sleep on!

But my spirit sleeps not; as one Awaiting the summoning cry, The voice of a lover who tarries, She stands by the outermost gate And peers in the dark, abroad: On this side, the land well-known,