Major Charles G. D. Roberts
Lightly the rushes,
Lean to his breast; A bird s wing brushes
The place of his rest.
The far-flown swallow, The gold-finch flame,
They come, they follow The paths he came.
Tis the land of No Care Where now he lies,
Fulfilled the prayer Of his weary eyes ;
And while around him The kind grass creeps,
Where peace hath found him How sound he sleeps.
Well to his slumber Attends the Year;
Soft rains without number, Soft noons, blue clear,
With nights of balm,
And the dark, sweet hours
Brooding with calm, Pregnant with flowers.
See how she speeds them, Each childlike bloom,
And softly leads them, To tend his tomb!
The white-thorn nears As the cowslip goes,
Then the iris appears; And then, the rose.
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