REST.
Fresh from the tents, a soul, bright-mailed,
Stood numbered in the ranks of life,
But with the first rude tumult failed
And fled, a recreant, from the strife.
Then sad, ashamed, and desolate,
Put off her armour's heavy weight,
And wandering, clad in hermit guise,
Through paths waylaid by ghastly fears,
Implored, with wet, uplifted eyes,
A gift that's won by blood not tears,
Till with her own grief coldly blent,
Rose other words, austerely sent
To chide her graceless discontent.
"Truce to thy clamour, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."
Stood numbered in the ranks of life,
But with the first rude tumult failed
And fled, a recreant, from the strife.
Then sad, ashamed, and desolate,
Put off her armour's heavy weight,
And wandering, clad in hermit guise,
Through paths waylaid by ghastly fears,
Implored, with wet, uplifted eyes,
A gift that's won by blood not tears,
Till with her own grief coldly blent,
Rose other words, austerely sent
To chide her graceless discontent.
"Truce to thy clamour, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."
