Rest

I Lay me down to sleep, With little care Whether my waking find Me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast. My good right-hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong,—all that is past; I am ready not to do, At last, at last. My half-day’s work is done, And this is all my part,— I give a patient God My patient heart; And grasp his banner still, Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars Lead after him.