poem: On Coming to an End by George Whicher (1860-1937)

Now for all time I am absolved of haste;
My days of quietude shall never cease;
For that long task that was my spirit’s waste
Is finished, and its absence shall be peace.

I shall no more bewail my foiled endeavor,
Nor mourn the work undone, the time misspent.
Morn’s trumpet call nor twilight flute forever
Shall lure my feet the restless road they went.

Gone are consuming hope, the smoldering fires
That love and sorrow fed within my breast:
I have no sting of failures or desires:
I fear no evil, and my way is rest.
As thus I boasted came a low voice that said:
“Though these be true, why boast of being dead?”