And you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace
To enter here;
A prayer -- ascending from an orphan face,
Or just one tear
May meet you in the years that are to be
A blessing rare.
Ye pass beneath the arch of charity,
Who passeth there
Is blest in heaven, and is blest on earth,
And God will care,
Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth,
For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.
Rest
My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed --
And I desire, what I have long desired --
Rest -- only rest.
'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,
In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,
In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer
For rest -- sweet rest.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap
The Autumn yield;
'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep
O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry,
So heart oppressed;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
For rest -- for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years,
And cares infest
My path, and through the flowing of hot tears,
I pine -- for rest.
'Twas always so; when but a child I laid
On mother's breast
My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed
As now -- for rest.
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