sleep,
  For all thy cares and fears have dropped away;
  The night’s fatigue, the fever-fret of day,
  Are far below thee; and earth’s weary wars,
    In vain expense of passion, pass
  Before thy sight like visions in a glass,—­
  Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep
    Across the sea and leave no trace
  Of trouble on that immemorial face,—­
  So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight
  The wounds men give, the things for which they fight! 
  Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,—­
    A lichen clinging to the rock. 
  There sails a fleet upon the deep,—­
          A wandering flock
  Of snow-winged gulls.  And yonder, in the plain,
    A marble palace shines,—­a grain
    Of mica glittering in the rain. 
    Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled
    By voiceless winds:  and far between
  The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen,
    In shimmering robes of green and gold,
          And faint aerial hue
  That silent fades into the silent blue. 
      Thou, from thy mountain-hold,
  All day in tranquil wisdom looking down
  On distant scenes of human toil and strife,
  All night, with eyes aware of loftier life
  Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown,
  Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white
  Unto the harvest of the sons of light,
  And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime
  The few strong souls that dare to climb
  The slippery crags, and find thee on the height.

II

DE PROFUNDIS

  But in the depth thou hast another home,
      For hearts less daring, or more frail. 
  Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
        And pilgrim-souls that roam
      With weary feet o’er hill and dale,
      Bearing the burden and the heat
          Of toilful days,
        Turn from the dusty ways
  To find thee in thy green and still retreat. 
      Here is no vision wide outspread
  Before the lonely and exalted seat
  Of all-embracing knowledge.  Here, instead,
  A little cottage, and a garden-nook,
        With outlooks brief and sweet
  Across the meadows, and along the brook,—­
      A little stream that nothing knows
  Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,—­
  A little field that bears a little wheat
  To make a portion of earth’s daily bread. 
      The vast cloud-armies overhead
      Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
      Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
  Whence comes the wind nor where it goes;
  Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. 
        Thy daily task is done,
  And now the wages of repose are won. 
  Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
  Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
  Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
  In open converse, bringing forth its best: