I am so weary, mother dear!—
Thy child, of dual race,
Who gazing past the star-beams clear,
Sought the Undying's face!
Now I but ask to know thee near,
To feel thy large embrace!
Tranquil to lie against thy breast—
Deep source of noiseless springs,
Where hearts are healed, and wounds are dressed,
And naught or sobs or sings:
Against thy breast to lie at rest—
A life that folds its wings.
Sometime I may—for who can tell?—
Awake, no longer tired,
And see the fields of asphodel,
The dreamed-of, the desired,
And find the heights where He doth dwell,
To whom my heart aspired!
And then—— But peace awaiteth me—
Thy peace: I feel it near.
The hush, the voiceless mystery,
The languor without fear!
Enfold me—close; I want but thee!—
But thee, Earth-mother dear!
The oriole sang in the apple-tree;
The sick girl lay on her bed, and heard
The tremulous note of the glad wild bird;
