X Rest
Sometimes we feel so spent for want of rest,We have no thought beyond. I know to-day,When tired of bitter lips and dull delayWith faithless words, I cast mine eyes uponThe shadows of a distant mountain-crest,And said “That hill must hide within its breastSome secret glen secluded from the sun.Oh, mother Nature! would that I could runOutside to thee; and, like a wearied guest,Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, layAn aching head on thee. Then down the streamsThe moon might swim, and I should feel her grace,While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face,So quiet in the fellowship of dreams.”