A Song Of Comfort
"Sleep,
weary
ones,
while
ye
may
—
Sleep,
oh,
sleep!"
Eugene
Field.
Thro'
May
time
blossoms,
with
whisper
low,
The
soft
wind
sang
to
the
dead
below:
"Think
not
with
regret
on
the
Springtime's
song
And
the
task
ye
left
while
your
hands
were
strong.
The
song
would
have
ceased
when
the
Spring
was
past,
And
the
task
that
was
joyous
be
weary
at
last."
To
the
winter
sky
when
the
nights
were
long
The
tree-tops
tossed
with
a
ceaseless
song:
"Do
ye
think
with
regret
on
the
sunny
days
And
the
path
ye
left,
with
its
untrod
ways?
The
sun
might
sink
in
a
storm
cloud's
frown
And
the
path
grow
rough
when
the
night
came
down."
In
the
grey
twilight
of
the
autumn
eves,
It
sighed
as
it
sang
through
the
dying
leaves:
"Ye
think
with
regret
that
the
world
was
bright,
That
your
path
was
short
and
your
task
was
light;
The
path,
though
short,
was
perhaps
the
best
And
the
toil
was
sweet,
that
it
led
to
rest."
