Should be a resting-place until the night 
Broke, and I met my God, and stood within His 
sight. 
 
Only my brain grows feebler with the toil, 
And clearer runs the river I forsook ; 
Now in clear pools its myriad fountains boil, 
Now there runs singing to its breast a brook ; 
Now it flows gently to a little nook 
Where I once rested—Ah !  I clench my hand 
And turn away with yet undaunted look, 
Setting my face toward the distant land 
That must lie somewhere far beyond this world of 
sand. 
 
About me are the bones of many men 
Who turned to God their rapt adoring eyes, 
And cast away the love within their ken 
For this vague treasure-house beyond the 
skies— 
Whither I turn, like a dumb beast that dies, 
A wistful look, and breathe a dumb complaint. 
Lo !  they have cast away the mask of lies 
 
48