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“Sleep, weary ones, while ye may—

Sleep, oh, sleep!”

Eugene Field.

THRO’ May time blossoms, with whisper low,

The soft wind sang to the dead below:

“Think not with regret on the Springtime’s song

And the task ye left while your hands were strong.

The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,

And the task that was joyous be weary at last.”

To the winter sky when the nights were long

The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:

“Do ye think with regret on the sunny days

And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?

The sun might sink in a storm cloud’s frown

And the path grow rough when the night came down.”

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,

It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:

“Ye think with regret that the world was bright,

That your path was short and your task was light;

The path, though short, was perhaps the best

And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest.”