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!