"
Think not that souls whose deeds august
Put sin to shame and make men just
Become at last the helpless dust
That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!
The higher life within us cries,
Like some fine spirit from the skies,
"The Father's blessing on us lies --
`He giveth His beloved sleep.'"
Not human sleep -- the fitful rest
With evil shapes of dreams distressed, --
But perfect quiet, unexpressed
By any worldly word we keep.
The dim Hereafter framed in creeds
May not be this; but He who reads
Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds --
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
Be sure this hero who has passed
The human space -- the outer vast --
Who worked in harness to the last,
Doth now a hallowed harvest reap.
Love sees his grave, nor turns away --
The eyes of faith are like the day,
And grief has not a word to say --
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws
A light, which puts to shame the rose,
Across his grave, because she knows
The son whose ashes it doth keep;
And, like far music, ~this~ is heard --
"Behold the man who never stirred,
By word of his, an angry word! --
`He giveth His beloved sleep.
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