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From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, April 24, 1915. By Almont Barnes.

Burn low, O light, and let the darkness in!
    Let silence be where fitful sounds have been;
Let soul to body be no more a mate;
    Let each, too tired, be sweetly desolate.

Yea, let the soul, e’en as a too loved bride,
    Turn gently from its sacred body’s side;
Love slumber more than love; turn and be still;
    Now that they both, or not, have had their will.

What matters it? They both are tired to death;
    They, married with the breathing of a breath,
Would gather up the feet and be at rest,
    Content to be oblivious of the best—

And happier so all discord to elude,
    All bitter pain, in that great solitude
That reaches like a sea, cool, infinite,
    O’er folded hands and lips to memory sweet—

A sea of grassy waves, foam fringed with flowers,
    The tenderest gift of any gift of ours;
For lo, the last of all, with floral wile
    We woo the mutest thing, the grave, to smile.

If one goes gladly, at the close of day,
    Puts all the playthings of his world away,
Pulls down the curtain, lays his aching head
    And weary body on a downy bed—

Divested of all care, but robbed in sleep,
    Not any one will make it cause to weep;
Then after one sigh, if there be no breath,
    What rest is kindlier than the sleep of death?

O soul, we each have wearied! Let us turn
    Both breast from breast. There is no more to learn.
There may be dawn beyond the midnight’s pall;
    But now sweet rest is better—best of all.

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