Poems (Odom)/The Place of Rest

THE PLACE OF REST.

I asked a laughing, romping child:
"Where is a place of rest?"
She tossed her curls in a pretty way,
And said: "When I am tired of play
I lean on mother's breast."

I asked a boy on his way to school:
"Do you know a place of rest?"
He dropped a stick he was whittling then,
But said, as he picked it up again:
"Our old playground 's the best."

I wandered on in my weary walk,
Foot-sore, with aching breast;
"Oh! where," I asked of a busy man,—
"Do tell me, sir, if indeed you can,
A place where I may rest?"

He stopped, with a lofty look of pride:
"Ah! stranger, you but jest;
'T is only those who sow will reap,
And he who wins in the race must keep
Right on,—he must not rest."

I asked a woman I saw sit down,
With her baby on her breast:
"'The place of rest,' did I hear you say?
God knows, I have worked since dawn of day,—
I never have time to rest."

I asked a man who was rich and great,
As on I sadly pressed;
His brow was knitted and dark with care;
He said, with his hand on his snowy hair:
"I never have thought of rest."

I asked a lady with golden hair,
And jewels upon her breast;
She raised her beautiful star-like eyes
And said: "Oh! nowhere under the skies
Can I find peace nor rest."

I asked a beggar, whose ragged shirt
Scarce covered his swarthy breast;
He put on his crownless hat and said:
"When somebody gives me a crust of bread,
I sit on this stone and rest."

I asked a woman so old and gray,
I thought she would know the best;
She said: "I have toiled through grief and tears
For fourscore long and weary years—
I have almost found my rest."

I asked a clergyman walking slow,
With a cross upon his breast;
He folded his snow-white hands and said:
"'T is only the sheeted and quiet dead
To whom it is given to rest."

Then I began to tire at last
Of my long and fruitless quest,
When some one said, in a cheery voice,
That made my wearied heart rejoice:
"Come home with me, and rest."

Ah! here I thought is what I wished
I feel no more oppressed.
I grasped his friendly hand and walked
Beside him, while he laughed and talked
Of wife, and home, and rest.

We stopped before a low white gate,
The latch he gently pressed,
The cottage door stood open wide;
His baby sleeping just inside,
Upon its mother's breast.

Two other little ones I saw,
All cleanly, sweetly dressed.
He met his wife's uplifted eyes,
Blue as the summer sunlit skies;
Her lips he softly pressed.

He took his baby from her arms,
And tossed it up in glee,
And while its joyous laugh rang out,
The other two clung close about
Their happy father's knee.

The young wife smiled upon them all,
Her dearest, sweetest, best;
No look of weariness is there,
Wrought by the hand of anxious care.
"Ah! here at last is rest."