Poetry Archives

And I shall lie alone at last,
Clear of the stream that ran so fast,
And feel the flower roots in my hair,
And in my hands the roots of trees;
Myself wrapt in the ungrudging peace
That leaves no pain uncovered anywhere.

What—this hope left? this way not barred?
This last best treasure without guard?
This heaven free—no prayers to pay?
Fool—are the Rulers of men asleep?
Thou knowest what tears They bade thee weep,
But, when peace comes, ’tis thou wilt sleep, not They.