Hall Caine (1853–1931)

WHERE lies the land to which thy soul would go?—

Beyond the wearied wold, the songless dell,

The purple grape and golden asphodel,

Beyond the zone where streams baptismal flow.

Where lies the land of which thy soul would know?—

There where the unvexed senses darkling dwell,

Where never haunting, hurrying footfall fell,

Where toil is not, nor builded hope laid low.

Rest! Rest! to thy hushed realm how one by one

Old Earth’s tired ages steal away and weep

Forgotten or unknown, long duty done!

Ah God, when death in seeming peace shall steep

Life’s loud turmoil and Time his race hath run

Shall heart of man at length find rest and sleep?