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.