REST.
This life hath hours that hold
The soul above itself, as at a show
A child, upon a loving arm and bold
Uplifted safe, upon the crowd below
Smiles down serene,—I speak to them that know
This thing whereof I speak, that none can guess
And none can paint,—what marks hath Blessedness,
What characters whereby it may be told?
Such hours with things that never can grow old
Are shrined. One eve 'mid autumns far away
I walked alone beside a river, grey
And pale was earth, the heavens were grey and pale,
As if the dying year and dying day
Sobbed out their lives together; wreaths of mist
Stole down the hills to shroud them while they kissed
Each other sadly; yet behind this veil
Of drearness and decay my soul did build
To music of its own a temple filled
The soul above itself, as at a show
A child, upon a loving arm and bold
Uplifted safe, upon the crowd below
Smiles down serene,—I speak to them that know
This thing whereof I speak, that none can guess
And none can paint,—what marks hath Blessedness,
What characters whereby it may be told?
Such hours with things that never can grow old
Are shrined. One eve 'mid autumns far away
I walked alone beside a river, grey
And pale was earth, the heavens were grey and pale,
As if the dying year and dying day
Sobbed out their lives together; wreaths of mist
Stole down the hills to shroud them while they kissed
Each other sadly; yet behind this veil
Of drearness and decay my soul did build
To music of its own a temple filled
