James Lionel Michael

Be his rest the rest he sought:     Calm and deep.     Let no wayward word or thought     Vex his sleep.     Peace the peace that no man knows     Now remains     Where the wasted woodwind blows,     Wakes and wanes.     Latter leaves, in Autumns breath,     White and sere,     Sanctify the scholars death,     Lying here.     Soft surprises of the sun     Swift, serene     Oer the mute grave-grasses run,     Cold and green.     Wet and cold the hillwinds moan;     Let them rave!     Love that takes a tender tone     Lights his grave.     He who knew the friendless face     Sorrows shew,     Often sought this quiet place     Years ago.     One, too apt to faint and fail,     Loved to stray     Here where water-shallows wail     Day by day.     Care that lays her heavy hand     On the best,     Bound him with an iron hand;     Let him rest.     Life, that flieth like a tune,     Left his eyes,     As an April afternoon     Leaves the skies.     Peace is best! If life was hard     Peace came next.     Thus the scholar, thus the bard,     Lies unvext.     Safely housed at last from rack     Far from pain;     Who would wish to have him back?     Back again?     Let the forms he loved so well     Hover near;     Shine of hill and shade of dell,     Year by year.     All the wilful waifs that make     Beautys face,     Let them sojourn for his sake     Round this place.     Flying splendours, singing streams,     Lutes and lights,     May they be as happy dreams:     Sounds and sights;     So that Time to Love may say,     Wherefore weep?     Sweet is sleep at close of day!     Death is sleep.