Rest

MARY BLOMFIELD

AND what of rest—
Whence is it?
In the secret place of the Most High,
In the quiet of unsoiled humility,
Recognitive of the inner peace
That lieth foursquare
Where that which comes and goes
Disturbs it not,
There true peace is found,
Asking not nor seeking,
But quiescent unto eternal things.

Within are treasures of effulgent light
By that light revealed,
Emanating from the hidden mine
Whence wisdom and perpetual beauty shine.
Aye, deep in consciousness there glows
A living flame.
Its being none may question;
Its habitat always the same
Forever is free born.
And when the clamor dies
Which through the senses seems to rise,
Its pure and perfect light shines forth,
Restfully proclaiming
Man's true birth.