224 SPIRIT S JOURNEV TO DREAM-LAND.
Lie folded, hands, you ve naught to do, My journey has no need of you ; No gathered raiment seeks the soul, For Dream-land gives its own white stole.
Poor patient face, with lines of care ; Poor faded cheek and tarnished hair ; Poor weary fingers, laid at rest Over the quiet beating breast,
Poor tired feet, that stumble so Along the path they seek to go, Lie still, poor body, silence keep, Rocked in the gentle arms of sleep,
While I, thy soul, go flitting far, Bound by no verge, held by no star, Catching the skirts of angels gone To ask why I am left alone.
I ll look in Youth s forgotten face, And your remembered image trace; Then summon, as I choose, to me, Each form beloved I used to see.
And when they speak, as speak they must, With speech untaught of human dust, I ll tell thee, waking, what they say Of deathless love that lives to-day.
And so, when morning blushes sweet, Quicker shall go the patient feet,
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