The Place of Rest
The soul is its own witness and its own refuge. Unto the deep the deep heart goes, It lays its sadness nigh the breast: Only the Mighty Mother knows The wounds that quiver unconfessed. It seeks a deeper silence still; It folds itself around with peace, Where thoughts alike of good or ill In quietness unfostered cease. It feels in the unwounding vast For comfort for its hopes and fears: The Mighty Mother bows at last; She listens to her children's tears. Where the last anguish deepens -- there The fire of beauty smites through pain: A glory moves amid despair, The Mother takes her child again.
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