212
THE PLACE OF REST.
I asked a woman so old and gray, I thought she would know the best;She said: "I have toiled through grief and tearsFor fourscore long and weary years— I have almost found my rest."
I asked a clergyman walking slow, With a cross upon his breast;He folded his snow-white hands and said:"'T is only the sheeted and quiet dead To whom it is given to rest."
Then I began to tire at last Of my long and fruitless quest,When some one said, in a cheery voice,That made my wearied heart rejoice: "Come home with me, and rest."
Ah! here I thought is what I wished I feel no more oppressed.I grasped his friendly hand and walkedBeside him, while he laughed and talked Of wife, and home, and rest.
