Poems (Procter)/Rest at Evening
HEN the weariness of Life is ended,And the task of our long day is done,And the props, on which our hearts depended,All have failed or broken, one by one;Evening and our Sorrow's shadow blended,Telling us that peace is now begun.
REST AT EVENING.
HEN the weariness of Life is ended,And the task of our long day is done,And the props, on which our hearts depended,All have failed or broken, one by one;Evening and our Sorrow's shadow blended,Telling us that peace is now begun.How far back will seem the sun's first dawning,And those early mists so cold and gray!Half forgotten even the toil of morning,And the heat and burthen of the day:Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,All alike withered and cast away.
Vain will seem the impatient heart, which waitedToils that gathered but too quickly round;And the childish joy, so soon elatedAt the path we thought none else had found;And the foolish ardor, soon abatedBy the storm which cast us to the ground.
Vain those pauses on the road, each seemingAs our final home and resting-place;And the leaving them, while tears were streamingOf eternal sorrow down our face;And the hands we held, fond folly dreamingThat no future could their touch efface.
All will then be faded:—night will borrowStars of light to crown our perfect rest; And the dim vague memory of faint sorrowJust remain to show us all was best,Then melt into a divine to-morrow:—O how poor a day to be so blest!