The dead leaves rustle near

 

Some day this quest

Shall cease;

Some day,

For aye,

This heart shall rest

In peace.

Sometimes—ofttimes—I almost feel

The calm upon my senses steal,

So soft, and all but hear

The dead leaves rustle near

And sign to be

At rest with me.

Though I behold

The ashen branches tossing to and fro,

Somehow I only vaguely know

The wind is rude and cold.

A Vision of Rest

Alexander Posey1873 – 1908

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