The Place Of His Rest

The green marsh-mallows Are over him. Along the shallows The pale lights swim.

Wide air, washed grasses, And waveless stream; And over him passes The drift of dream;--

The pearl-hue down Of the poplar seed; The elm-flower brown; And the sway of the reed;

The blue moth, winged With a flake of sky; The bee, gold ringed; And the dragon fly.

Lightly the rushes, Lean to his breast; A bird's wing brushes The place of his rest.

The far-flown swallow, The gold-finch flame,-- They come, they follow The paths he came.

'Tis the land of No Care Where now he lies, Fulfilled the prayer Of his weary eyes:

And while around him The kind grass creeps, Where peace hath found him How sound he sleeps.

Well to his slumber Attends the year: Soft rains without number Soft noons, blue clear,

With nights of balm, And the dark, sweet hours Brooding with calm, Pregnant with flowers.

See how she speeds them, Each childlike bloom, And softly leads them To tend his tomb!--

The white thorn nears As the cowslip goes; Then the iris appears; And then, the rose.