Poems (Greenwell)/Rest

For works with similar titles, see Rest.
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REST. 
This life hath hours that hold  The soul above itself, as at a show A child, upon a loving arm and bold  Uplifted safe, upon the crowd below  Smiles down serene,—I speak to them that know This thing whereof I speak, that none can guess And none can paint,—what marks hath Blessedness, What characters whereby it may be told? Such hours with things that never can grow old Are shrined. One eve 'mid autumns far away I walked alone beside a river, grey And pale was earth, the heavens were grey and pale, As if the dying year and dying day Sobbed out their lives together; wreaths of mist Stole down the hills to shroud them while they kissed Each other sadly; yet behind this veil Of drearness and decay my soul did build To music of its own a temple filled ​With worshippers beloved that hither drew  In silence; then I thirsted not to hear  The voice of any friend, nor wished for dear Companion's hand firm clasped in mine; I knew,  Had such been with me, they had been less near.
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