When from this world my way lies to the west,
Footsore and muddy, wounded, shattered, spent,
Death being past I shall but crave a rest,
A kindly hostel, welcome and content.

Some hope for golden streets and gates of pearl,
And some for haloes and a sea of glass,
May God forgive me for a thankless churl—
I'd rather have one field of daisied grass.

I am too battle-stained for mansions fine,
Too tired for the flutes and minstrelsy,
A Paradise remote and green be mine,
A cottage there were good enough for me.

I'd choose to reach it when the evening sun
Sends level beams among the elm-trees' boles,
When rooks and daws fly home and labour's done,
And all the wayside flowers wear aureoles.

Later, the gentle twilight sweet with stocks,
A flittering of bats against the sky,
Dim orchard grass where dandelion clocks
Tell fairy time to elves who wander by.

Gnarled boughs beneath the casement of my room,
That white still room set far from strife and fear;
The church owl hooting in his hallowed gloom,
A sound of hurried waters at the weir;

The house all hushed save when the night winds stir
The cluster roses nodding at the pane,
Or drowsy moths set soft grey wings awhirr
About the walls, then sink to rest again.

How good to lie and dream with fast-shut eyes,
Of every care and baulked desire bereft;
To take no heed of punishment or prize
Or that bewildered toil-worn life I'd left!

Who knows, the Master of the House might stand
At rising of the moon beside my bed
And say, “Sleep on, sleep on,” and lay His hand
In benediction on my weary head.