I lay me down to sleep.
With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here—or There!
A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A Loving Breast.
My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now—
To march the weary march
I know not how.
I am not eager, bold,
Or strong—all that is past:
I am ready not to do
At last—at last!
My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part;
I give a patient God
My patient heart,
And grasp His banner still,
Though all its blue be dim;
These stripes, no less than stars,
Lead after Him.