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!