James Lionel Michael
BE HIS rest the rest he sought:
Calm and deep.
Let no wayward word or thought
Vex his sleep.
Peace—the peace that no man knows—
Now remains
Where the wasted woodwind blows,
Wakes and wanes.
Latter leaves, in Autumn’s breath,
White and sere,
Sanctify the scholar’s death,
Lying here.
Soft surprises of the sun—
Swift, serene—
O’er the mute grave-grasses run,
Cold and green.
Wet and cold the hillwinds moan;
Let them rave!
Love that takes a tender tone
Lights his grave.
He who knew the friendless face
Sorrows shew,
Often sought this quiet place
Years ago.
One, too apt to faint and fail,
Loved to stray
Here where water-shallows wail
Day by day.
Care that lays her heavy hand
On the best,
Bound him with an iron hand;
Let him rest.
Life, that flieth like a tune,
Left his eyes,
As an April afternoon
Leaves the skies.
Peace is best! If life was hard
Peace came next.
Thus the scholar, thus the bard,
Lies unvext.
Safely housed at last from rack—
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poem by Henry Kendall
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