Thou too art sick of dreams, that stain
The aisle, along which life must pass,
With hues of mystic-colored glass,
That fills the windows of the brain.
Thou too art sick of thoughts, that carve
The house of days with arabesques
And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques
In masks of hope and faith who starve.
Come, lay thy over-weary head
Upon my bosom! Do not weep!—
“He giveth His beloved sleep."—
Heart of my heart, be comforted.