The beauty of the universe

Was lying on me like a curse;

Only the lone surge at my feet

Uttered a soothing murmur sweet,

As every broken weary wave

Sunk gently to a quiet grave,

Dying on the bosom of the sea—

And death grew beautiful to me,

Until it seemed a mother mild,

And I like some too happy child;

A happy child, that tired with play,

Through a long summer holiday,

Runs to his mother’s arms to weep

His little weariness asleep.{12}

{12}

Rest—rest—all passion that once stirred

My heart, had ended in one word—

My one desire to be at rest,

To lay my head on any breast,

Where there was hope that I might keep

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