A Roundel of Rest

The peace of a wandering sky,

Silence, only the cry

Of the crickets, suddenly still,

A bee on the window sill,

A bird's wing, rushing and soft,

Three flails that tramp in the loft,

Summer murmuring

Some sweet, slumberous thing,

Half asleep; but thou cease,

Heart, to hunger for peace,

Or, if thou must find rest,

Cease to beat in my breast.