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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
AT LAST.
Rest here, at last,
The long way overpast;
Rest here, at home,—
Thy race is run,
Thy dreary journey done,
Thy last peak clomb.
The long way overpast;
Rest here, at home,—
Thy race is run,
Thy dreary journey done,
Thy last peak clomb.
'Twixt birth and death,
What days of bitter breath
Were thine, alas!
Thy soul had sight
To see, by day, by night,
Strange phantoms pass.
What days of bitter breath
Were thine, alas!
Thy soul had sight
To see, by day, by night,
Strange phantoms pass.
355
Thy restless heart
In few glad things had part,
But dwelt alone,
And night and day,
In the old way
Made the old moan.
In few glad things had part,
But dwelt alone,
And night and day,
In the old way
Made the old moan.
But here is rest
For aching brain and breast,
Deep rest, complete,
And nevermore,
Heart-weary and foot-sore,
Shall stray thy feet,—
For aching brain and breast,
Deep rest, complete,
And nevermore,
Heart-weary and foot-sore,
Shall stray thy feet,—
Thy feet that went,
With such long discontent,
Their wonted beat
About thy room,
With its deep-seated gloom,
Or through the street.
With such long discontent,
Their wonted beat
About thy room,
With its deep-seated gloom,
Or through the street.
Death gives them ease;
Death gives thy spirit peace;
Death lulls thee, quite.
One thing alone
Death leaves thee of thine own,—
Thy starless night.
Death gives thy spirit peace;
Death lulls thee, quite.
One thing alone
Death leaves thee of thine own,—
Thy starless night.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |