De Profundis

But in the depth thou hast another home,For hearts less daring, or more frail.Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;And pilgrim-souls that roamWith weary feet o'er hill and dale,Bearing the burden and the heatOf toilful days,Turn from the dusty waysTo find thee in thy green and still retreat.Here is no vision wide outspreadBefore the lonely and exalted seatOf all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead,A little cottage, and a garden-nook,With outlooks brief and sweetAcross the meadows, and along the brook,--A little stream that nothing knowsOf the great sea to which it gladly flows,--A little field that bears a little wheatTo make a portion of earth's daily bread.The vast cloud-armies overheadAre marshalled, and the wild wind blowsIts trumpet, but thou canst not tellWhence comes the wind nor where it goes;Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well.Thy daily task is done,And now the wages of repose are won.Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,Dares to be true, and gladly takes its partIn open converse, bringing forth its best:And here is music, melting every chainOf lassitude and pain:And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts,--Kind sleep, the tender nurse who liftsThe soul grown weary of the waking world,And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.