James Lionel Michael

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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—
 Far from pain;
Who would wish to have him back?
 Back again?

Let the forms he loved so well
 Hover near;
Shine of hill and shade of dell,
 Year by year.

All the wilful waifs that make
 Beauty’s face,
Let them sojourn for his sake
 Round this place.

Flying splendours, singing streams,
 Lutes and lights,
May they be as happy dreams:
 Sounds and sights;

So that Time to Love may say,
 “Wherefore weep?
Sweet is sleep at close of day!
 Death is sleep.”

© Henry Kendall