The Vagrant of Time

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

THE PLACE OF HIS REST


 

THE green marsh-mallows
    Are over him.
Along the shallows
    The pale lights swim.

Wide air, washed grasses,

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    And waveless stream;
And over him passes
    The drift of dream;—

The pearl-hue down
    Of the poplar seed;

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The elm-flower brown;
    And the sway of the reed;

The blue moth, winged
    With a flake of sky;
The bee, gold ringed;

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    And the dragon fly.

Lightly the rushes
    Lean to his breast;
A bird’s wing brushes
    The place of his rest.

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The far-flown swallow,
    The gold-finch flame,—
They come, they follow
    The paths he came.

’Tis the land of No Care

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    Where now he lies,
Fulfilled the prayer
    Of his weary eyes:

And while around him
    The kind grass creeps,

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Where peace hath found him
    How sound he sleeps.

Well to his slumber
    Attends the year:
Soft rains without number

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    Soft noons, blue clear,

With nights of balm,
    And the dark, sweet hours
Brooding with calm,
    Pregnant with flowers.

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See how she speeds them,
    Each childlike bloom,
And softly leads them
    To tend his tomb!—

The white thorn nears

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    As the cowslip goes;
Then the iris appears;
    And then, the rose.