There comes, at last, a restful sleep,
And when the day is done,
The long, eternal shadows creep
Across the sinking sun.

A silence in the eventide,
A silence strange and still,
A hush that wraps the landscape wide,
A fading of the hill.

And we shall sleep, oh, brothers mine,
And what shall then avail,
If some have reached to heights divine
And others faint and fail?

All tearful is the grass-green sod
And mournful is the sea;
A human heart may be the clod
That turns upon the lea.

It is but well that hearts be kind
And loving whiles they may,
With tender words for all who find
But sorrow in the way.

For all things cease but sorrow—here
Is dreaming for to-day,
And for the long to-morrow—fear;
Love then—and well—who may.

For some shall weep and all shall sleep,
And when the day is done,
The long eternal shadows creep
Across the sinking sun.