Classic Poem

If rest is sweet at shut of day
— For tired hands and tired feet,
How sweet at last to rest for aye,
If rest is sweet!

We work or work not through the heat:
— Death bids us soon our labors lay
In lands where night and twilight meet.

When the last dawns are fallen gray
— And all life's toil and ease complete,
They know who work, not they who play,
If rest is sweet.