At Rest

Shall I lie down to sleep, and see no more
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky—
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die—
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?

Nay! I shall be, in my low silent home,
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware—
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care—
At rest—at rest! What better thing to say?