Rest.
Not in the torpor of a stagnant pool,1
Where never ripples on the waters rise,2
And which in stillness almost death-like lies ;3
But in the calm of ocean strong and full,4
Whose waves, late tossed about like snow-white wool,5
Are cradled now upon their mother’s breast6
Into a beautiful and sun-lit rest :7
Nor yet again in that serene repose,8
Where magic silence clings about a face,9
Most exquisite in marble sculptured grace—10
But in a sleeping child, whose beauty shews11
Faint semblance of the grace the marble knows,12
Yet glorious as the waves that sleeping shine ;13
For Life is there, with its impress divine !14