Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

At Peace

Shut close the wearied eyes, O Sleep!
So close no dreams may come between,
Of all the sorrows they have seen;
Too long, too sad, their watch hath been.
Be faithful, Sleep:
Lest they should wake — remembering;
Lest they should wake, and waking weep,
O Sleep, sweet Sleep!

Clasp close the wearied hands, O Rest!
Poor hands, so thin and feeble grown
With all the tasks which they have done;
Now they are finished — every one.
O happy Rest,
Fold them at last from laboring,
In quiet on the quiet breast,
O Rest, sweet Rest!

Press close unto her heart, O Death!
So close, not any pulse may stir
The garments of her sepulchre:
Lo, life hath been so sad to her!
O kindest Death,
Within thy safest sheltering
Nor pain nor sorrow entereth —
O Death, sweet Death!

1. Meadowlarks
2. The Captive of the White City
3. Unbound
4. The Day of Our Lord
5. Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)

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