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.