James Lionel Michael
Be his rest the rest he sought:Calm and deep.Let no wayward word or thoughtVex his sleep.
Peace—the peace that no man knows—Now remainsWhere the wasted woodwind blows,Wakes and wanes.
Latter leaves, in Autumn’s breath,White and sere,Sanctify the scholar’s death,Lying here.
Soft surprises of the sun—Swift, serene—O’er the mute grave-grasses run,Cold and green.
Wet and cold the hillwinds moan;Let them rave!Love that takes a tender toneLights his grave.
He who knew the friendless faceSorrows shew,Often sought this quiet placeYears ago.
One, too apt to faint and fail,Loved to strayHere where water-shallows wailDay by day.
Care that lays her heavy handOn the best,Bound him with an iron hand;Let him rest.
Life, that flieth like a tune,Left his eyes,As an April afternoonLeaves the skies.
Peace is best! If life was hardPeace came next.Thus the scholar, thus the bard,Lies unvext.
Safely housed at last from rack—Far from pain;Who would wish to have him back?Back again?
Let the forms he loved so wellHover near;Shine of hill and shade of dell,Year by year.
All the wilful waifs that makeBeauty’s face,Let them sojourn for his sakeRound this place.
Flying splendours, singing streams,Lutes and lights,May they be as happy dreams:Sounds and sights;
So that Time to Love may say,“Wherefore weep?Sweet is sleep at close of day!Death is sleep.”