By Albert Phelps
Sunk is the sun behind the western trees;
And the long shadows melt into the dusk;
The garden-flowers look palely from hushed leaves,
Scenting the breeze with heavy-laden sweets.
Now falls the night, down-sifting through the air
Lulled waftures of soft-dripping silences;
And slumber-breathing darkness shrouds thine eyes.
The idle hands lie folded in the lap,
Forgetting the long travail of the day;
The playthings we call work are all put by;
And all the rankling of the bitter world,
Like a dull snake, coils up itself to sleep;
And peace falls, like a flutter of white doves.
For sin and pain and passion and all ills
That tear the unshielded weakness of our souls;
The power that bids us suffer gives us sleep;
And he that says he has no faith lies down,
And in all faith resigns his soul to sleep;
Sure of the morning and the light again,
Forth ebbs the soul upon the tide of dreams.
And all alike are folded in one love;
And all alike are guided by one will;
And on each heart fall the cool dews of rest.
Love, thou art weary, and thine eyes are wet.