176
Rest.
At even there came a cold wind, sent
To drift her poor hopes, crushed and sere.
And on night's cloudy battlement
There stalked, oh God, what spectral Fear!
When the last shadow, dim and gray,
Sank hovering to the brow of day,
She heard that strange voice, pitying, say,
"Truce to thy lingering, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."
To drift her poor hopes, crushed and sere.
And on night's cloudy battlement
There stalked, oh God, what spectral Fear!
When the last shadow, dim and gray,
Sank hovering to the brow of day,
She heard that strange voice, pitying, say,
"Truce to thy lingering, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."
