Pause

Thou too art sick of dreams, that stain The aisle, along which life must pass, With hues of mystic-colored glass, That fills the windows of the brain.

Thou too art sick of thoughts, that carve The house of days with arabesques And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques In masks of hope and faith who starve.

Come, lay thy over-weary head Upon my bosom! Do not weep!-- “He giveth His beloved sleep."-- Heart of my heart, be comforted.