REST.
Reading edition
In deepest weariness I lay so still One might have thought it death, For hush of motion and a sleep of will Gave me but soundless breath. And yet I slept not; only knew that Rest Held me all close to her: Softly but firmly fettered to her breast, I had no wish to stir. "Oh, if," I thought, "death would but be like this!— Neither to sleep nor wake, But have for ages just this conscious bliss, That perfect rest I take." The soul grows often weary, like the flesh: May rest pervade her long, While she shall feel the joy of growing fresh For heavenly work and song!
CHARLOTTE F. BATES.