Lo! I am weary of all, —
Of men, and their love and their hate;
I have been long enough life's thrall,
And the toy of a tyrant fate.
I would have nothing but rest,
I would not struggle again;
Take me now to thy breast,
Earth, sweet mother of men.
Hide me, and let me sleep;
Give me a lonely tomb,
So close and so dark and so deep,
I shall hear no trumpet of doom.
There let me lie forgot,
When the dead at its blast are gone;
Give me to hear it not,
But only to slumber on.
This is the fate I crave,
For I look to the end, and see,
If there be not rest in the grave,
There will never be rest for me.
