I THOUGHT, beloved, to have brought to you <br />A gift of quietness and ease and peace, <br />Cooling your brow as with the mystic dew <br />Dropping from twilight trees. <br /> <br /> <br />Homeward I go not yet; the darkness grows; <br />Not mine the voice to still with peace divine: <br />From the first fount the stream of quiet flows <br />Through other hearts than mine. <br /> <br /> <br />Yet of my night I give to you the stars, <br />And of my sorrow here the sweetest gains, <br />And out of hell, beyond its iron bars, <br />My scorn of all its pains.<br /><br />George William Russell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gift-87/
