***   
   
The Blessed Realm is bereaved of night    
Its holy lamps are far too bright    
On cleansed shores under beauty's sway    
cries every grain of sand for rain.     
     
In a dry grove among strange trees    
beneath undying silver leaves -     
     
 - the Master sleeps.    
Oh let his sleep    
be pure and kind,    
light and deep!    
Soft let the time    
about him fly -     
at rest on Earth,    
a star of sky.    
Let healing dreams    
supplant all fears -     
before the sorrow,    
after tears.    
     
Sometimes I deem     
it would be best    
for him - and Evil -     
- be at rest ---    
     
the Earth would grow and breath in peace    
and hear his voice in Children's dreams -     
- without unbidden Western guests,    
false kings with their unholy quests.    
     
Oh let him rest in tender grass    
until his Children rise from dust    
and grow wings,    
and come again    
to take some night    
from the bright day.