III.

For surely this pale bough, with hoary leaf, Is symbol of one still thought that is ours After the fire of grief: Thought not unhappy, fruitful thought, that showers A lustral rain of gentle tears and pure, Breaking the spell of Death, that else were sure To chain our living powers, To lock Joy fettered in the frozen breast: The one calm thought, the peaceful thought, _They rest_.

They rest: brief rest was theirs Ere set of sun, and long and full of cares The laboring day. ’Tis now as night, soft night, Descending and enfolding, whereon bright Old hours of toil are shining, sanctified To stars that light and guide!