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Man to his labour, till the shadows come
And bear on silent wings God's gift of sleep,
Goeth from day to day, to sow; to reap;
Or bear, at length, the gathered harvest home:
And, in the city's heart, the chattering loom
Is checked in utterance, and the mighty leap
Of iron pulses stilled, and stayed the sweep
Of enginery beneath the touch of gloom.
So, when that greater day has ceased its roar,
And through the dirge, we catch the distant psalm,
And on the threshold of Life's awful door,
The thorn-branch laid, ere yet is grasped the palm,
They fold their hands from labour evermore
And His beloved sleep in restful calm.