Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Where ranges forth the spirit far and free? Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies Tends her far course to lands of mystery? To lands unspeakable--beyond surmise, Where shapes unknowable to being spring, Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, How questioneth the soul that other soul,-- The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies, But self exposes unto self, a scroll Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise, In characters indelible and known; So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise, The soul doth view its awful self alone, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes, The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm, And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize For kissing all our passions into calm, Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries, Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery, Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies, At glooms through which our visions cannot see, When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes. DEATH SONG[2] Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass. An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low, I kin hyeah it as it go Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.” Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool, Whah de little birds in spring, Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing, An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school. Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’ Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’ If I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed. LIFE[3] A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double: And that is life! A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us: And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter: And that is life! AFTER THE QUARREL[4] So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, To-night must lay our friendship by; Your wrath has burned your judgment up, Hot breath has blown the ashes high. You say that you are wronged--ah, well, I count that friendship poor, at best A bauble, a mere bagatelle, That cannot stand so slight a test. I fain would still have been your friend, And talked and laughed and loved with you; But since it must, why, let it end; The false but dies, ’tis not the true. So we are favored, you and I, Who only want the living truth. It was not good to nurse the lie; ’Tis well it died in harmless youth.