The Disciple: XVI

But is it God?--Once more the fear
Of No God loads my breath:
Amid a sunless atmosphere
I fight again with death.

Such rest may be like that which lulls
The man who fainting lies:
His bloodless brain his spirit dulls,
Draws darkness o'er his eyes.

But even such sleep, my heart responds,
May be the ancient rest
Rising released from bodily bonds,
And flowing unreprest.

The o'ertasked will falls down aghast
In individual death;
God puts aside the severed past,
Breathes-in a primal breath.

For how should torture breed a calm?
Can death to life give birth?
No labour can create the balm
That soothes the sleeping earth!

I yet will hope the very One
Whose love is life in me,
Did, when my strength was overdone,
Inspire serenity.