"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may -- <br /> Sleep, oh, sleep!" <br /> Eugene Field. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low, <br />The soft wind sang to the dead below: <br /> "Think not with regret on the Springtime's song <br /> And the task ye left while your hands were strong. <br /> The song would have ceased when the Spring was past, <br /> And the task that was joyous be weary at last." <br /> <br />To the winter sky when the nights were long <br />The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song: <br /> "Do ye think with regret on the sunny days <br /> And the path ye left, with its untrod ways? <br /> The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown <br /> And the path grow rough when the night came down." <br /> <br />In the grey twilight of the autumn eves, <br />It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves: <br /> "Ye think with regret that the world was bright, <br /> That your path was short and your task was light; <br /> The path, though short, was perhaps the best <br /> And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."<br /><br />John McCrae<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-of-comfort/
