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Rest, rest — there is no rest,

Until the quiet grave

Comes with its narrow arch

The heart to save

From life's long cankering rust,

From torpor, cold and still —

The loveless, saddened dust,

The jaded will.

And yet, be far the hour

Whose haven calls me home;

Long be the arduous day

Till evening come;

What sureness now remains

But that through livelong strife

Only the loser gains

An end to life?

Then in the soundless deep

Of even the shallowest grave

Childhood and love he'll keep,

And his soul save;

All vext desire, all vain

Cries of a conflict done

Fallen to rest again;

Death's refuge won.