De Profundis

But in the depth thou hast another home, For hearts less daring, or more frail. Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; And pilgrim-souls that roam With weary feet o'er hill and dale, Bearing the burden and the heat Of toilful days, Turn from the dusty ways To find thee in thy green and still retreat. Here is no vision wide outspread Before the lonely and exalted seat Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, A little cottage, and a garden-nook, With outlooks brief and sweet Across the meadows, and along the brook,-- A little stream that nothing knows Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,-- A little field that bears a little wheat To make a portion of earth's daily bread. The vast cloud-armies overhead Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell Whence comes the wind nor where it goes; Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. Thy daily task is done, And now the wages of repose are won. Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart, Sure of itself and sure of all the rest, Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part In open converse, bringing forth its best: And here is music, melting every chain Of lassitude and pain: And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts,-- Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts The soul grown weary of the waking world, And lays it, with its thoughts all furled, Its fears forgotten, and its passions still, On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.