by Robert Laurence Binyon
Sweet after labour, soft and whispering night
Blows on dark fields and fragrant country here:
Here there is sleep, to weary limbs delight;
The world is far away, the stars are near.
The world is far away: but there, I know,
Night comes to few unanxious, happy eyes;
And cities, with their restless streets aglow,
Lamps upon lamps, outface the enkindled skies.
London lies there; an endless fiery maze,
Thronged with her millions, sleepless, vast, alone;
The stars are pale above her, where her gaze
Lights the wide heavens and makes the night her own.
There the hot wind blows over no dark fields:
Brief, hard--won rest despotic labours give:
Sleep, to how many spent--out spirits, yields
Life's only sweetness, to forget they live!
Last updated January 14, 2019