Resting Souls

Be patient, weary body, soon the night

Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet,

And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite

To rest thy tired hands and aching feet.

The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine;

Come tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast.

But what steals out the gray clouds like red wine?

O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest.

.....

The Tired Worker - poem by Claude McKay