THE waves of care that round me crept at morn,
Rolled high at noon, then sank with vesper chime,
Have left me stranded on their silent bourne,
One ripple further on the shore of Time.
The forms that flit around my onward way,
The eyes that brightly gleam or sadly weep,
The tones that chill or cheer the busy day,
Are sever’d from me by the gulf of sleep.
And while in mystic calm the senses lie.
Usurping Fancy dons their wonted gear:
Grand are the sights that come not from the eye,
Wondrous the sounds that cheat the slumbering ear.
Darkness is glory, solitude a maze,
Silence a preacher of immortal zest;
Repose is rapture, and the fount of praise,
Wells from the soul while quivering voices rest.
Raise not the fallen burden of my care,
Break not the spell by note of joy or strife;
Still let the anxious thought and din and glare
That men call living be absorbed in Life.
© Emily Mary Barton