M. ST. CLARE BYRNE

There are few people, being by, That leave me peacefully to lie: Mostly their restless brains, or mine, Seek each the other to divine: Silence, that rightfully should be Clear-hearted as a stretch of sea That runs far inland, luminous, To rest in still shades verdurous, Becomes instead a thwarted thing, With only waywardness to bring. All otherwise in you I find The inner places of the mind: The gift of quiet on your brow Like some long benediction now Closes upon me: spirit-born Tranquillity enfolds each worn Wan thought, with slender fingers cool Drawing away from off the pool Of night the mists that hide a star, Dreaming wondrously afar: Till vision cometh down for me In gracious white serenity.