Rest

Mary Woolsey Howland (1832–1864)

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.