Herbert Edwin Clarke (b. 1852)

LO, I am weary of all,

Of men and their love and their hate;

I have been long enough Life’s thrall

And the toy of a tyrant Fate.

I would have nothing but rest,

I would not struggle again;

Take me now to thy breast,

Earth, sweet mother of men.

Hide me and let me sleep;

Give me a lonely tomb

So close and so dark and so deep

I shall hear no trumpet of doom.

There let me lie forgot

When the dead at its blast are gone;

Give me to hear it not,

But only to slumber on.

This is the fate I crave,

For I look to the end and see

If there be not rest in the grave

There will never be rest for me.