Knocking, 13

Give me rest, Rest, — ah, rest !

Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee ; Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure. Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, Waked to weariness of weeping; — Open to thy souFs one Lover, And thy night of dreams is over, — The true gifts He brings have seeming More than all thy faded dreaming !

Did she open ? Doth she ? Will she ? So, as wondering we behold, Grows the picture to a sign, Pressed upon your soul and mine ; For in every breast that liveth Is that strange mysterious door ; —