TO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulses

Upon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,

Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,

Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding

Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,

That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,

Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon

Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,

Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,

And all the past that should have been forgotten

Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,

To make the present worse, to slay all hope,

To quench the beacon that till now has been

Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!

This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest

Its misery but too well! All the old scars

Of former battles bleed once more within thee,

As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.

And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize

That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path

To trample under foot, or, further still,

Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away

Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well

Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou

Free from its tumult.

Yet that heart of thine

Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand

Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,

A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign

That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,

And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course

To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.

Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,

And though thy beacon be extinguished, though

Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,

Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand

That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea

Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!