At the Last

Now, poor tired hands, be still,

Toil-stained through Death’s white hue;

No need now for your skill,

No further task to do.

Folded across the breast,

Take calmest rest:

Dead hands no work shall soil—

’Tis living hands that toil.

Now, weary eyes, go sleep;

You shall see no more wrong,

Nor anxious watches keep

For Love that tarries long;

Shall shed no more sad tears

Through all the years.

Fold down your lids and sleep—

’Tis living eyes that weep.

Poor beating heart, now rest;

Sorrow or pain no more

Shall make thee sore distrest;

Thy restless care is o’er.

Go still sweet session keep

Of blissful sleep,

And no more throb and ache—

’Tis living hearts that break.