Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Very gentle and quiet he lies, With a little smile of sweet surprise, Just softly hushed at lips and eyes, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. _II_ Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Death leaned down as his eyes grew dim, And his face, I know, was not strange, not grim, But oh! it was beautiful to him, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. GREENNESS Tell me is there anything lovelier, Anything more quieting Than the green of little blades of grass And the green of little leaves? Is not each leaf a cool green hand, Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger, Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats? THE EYES OF MY REGRET Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path To the same well-worn rock; The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun, The same tints--rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey, Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily; Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point; Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars, Two eyes unfathomable, soul-searing, Watching, watching--watching me; The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk; The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees, Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,--The eyes of my Regret. GRASS FINGERS Touch me, touch me, Little cool grass fingers, Elusive, delicate grass fingers. With your shy brushings, Touch my face-- My naked arms-- My thighs-- My feet. Is there nothing that is kind? You need not fear me. Soon I shall be too far beneath you, For you to reach me, even, With your tiny, timorous toes. SURRENDER We ask for peace. We, at the bound O life, are weary of the round In search of Truth. We know the quest Is not for us, the vision blest Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned, We go, with heads bowed to the ground, And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned. Let us forget the past unrest,-- We ask for peace. Our strainéd ears are deaf,--no sound May reach them more; no sight may wound Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best, And, while we totter down the West, Unto that last, that open mound,-- We ask for peace. THE WAYS O’ MEN ’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, Their comin’s and their goin’s; For there’s the grey road, The straight road With the grey dust liftin’ With ev’ry step And the little roads off-flingin’.