If I could only lay me down to rest.
Crossing my weary hands upon my breast,
And shut my troubled eyes without a fear,
Knowing that they would never open here —
How blissful it must be, both worlds in sight,
To say my tired good-night.
If only, from the fretting cares of Time,
To truths eternal I at once may climb,
No longer count the graves whereon I tread,
But in one moment be all comforted —
If such could be, what joy, in upward flight,
To sing my tired good-night.
I watch the sweetest flowers throughout the morn,
I look, and lo! at noontide they are gone;
The wings of sorrow are forever spread;
I weep, but weeping brings not back my dead.
If God would but reveal the breaking light.
How sweet to say good-night.
This flooding tide of yearnings will not cease;
I cannot reach to touch the lips of Peace;
Nor can I gather to my sobbing heart
The white-winged angels God has set apart,
Yet haply I may find them all in sight
After some tired good-night.
What wonder, then, that I should long to rest,
Crossing my weary hands upon my breast;
To shut my troubled eyes without a fear,
Knowing that they would never open here;
To say to earth, with heaven alone in sight,
My rapturous good-night.