A Roundel of Rest
If rest is sweet at shut of day
For tired hands and tired feet,
How sweet at last to rest for aye,
If rest is sweet!
We work or work not through the heat:
Death bids us soon our labours lay
In lands where night and twilight meet.
When the last dawns are fallen on grey
And all life’s toils and ease complete,
They know who work, not they who play,
If rest is sweet.
Arthur Symons.