Rest

Under the brindled beech, Deep in the mottled shade, Where the rocks hang in reach Flower and ferny blade, Let him be laid.

Here will the brooks that rove Under the mossy trees,-- Grave with the music of Underworld melodies,-- Lap him in peace.

Here will the winds, that blow Out of the haunted west,-- Gold with the dreams that glow There on the heaven’s breast,-- Lull him to rest.

Here will the stars and moon, Silent and far and deep,-- Old with the mystic rune Of the slow years that creep,-- Charm him with sleep.

Under the ancient beech, Deep in the quiet shade,-- Where the wood’s peace may reach Him, as each bough is swayed,-- Let him be laid.