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142
[II.
But when with Day's long weariness oppressed,]
But when with Day's long weariness oppressed,With folded hands I watch the sun go down,
Lighting far torches in the steepled town,
And kindling all the glowing, reddening west;
When every sleepy bird has sought its nest;
When the long shadows from the hills are thrown,
And Night's soft airs about the world are blown,
Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest!
O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice!
It will be night-fall when thy voice I hear,
Summoning me to slumber soft and low!
Day will be done. Then will I not rejoice
That all my tasks are o'er and rest is near,
And, like a tired child, be glad to go?
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