Better So

Fast asleep, mine own familiar friend,
Fast asleep at last:
Though the pain was strong,
Though the struggle long,
It is past:
All thy pangs are at an end.

Whilst I weep, whilst death-bells toll,
Thou art fast asleep,
With idle hands upon thy breast
And heart at rest:
Whilst I weep
Angels sing around thy singing soul.

Who would wish thee back upon the rough
Wearisome dangerous road?
Wish back thy toil-spent soul
Just at the goal?
My soul, praise God
For one dear soul which hath enough.

I would not fetch thee back to hope with me
A sickening hope deferred,
To taste the cup that slips
From thirsty lips:
Hast thou not heard
What was to hear, and seen what was to see?

I would not speak the word if I could raise
My dead to life :
I would not speak
If I could flush thy cheek
And rouse thy pulses’ strife
And send thy feet on the once-trodden ways.

How could I meet the dear rebuke
If thou shouldst say:
“O friend of little faith,
Good was my lot of death,
And good my day
Of rest, and good the sleep I took”?