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Poem	To B. T. Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away.-- The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o'er. Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till blurred and grey the landscape lies. * * * * * * * All day we have plied the oar; all day Eager and keen have said our say On life and death, on love and art, On good or ill at Nature's heart. Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift The lazy oars, but onward drift. And the silence is only stirred Here and there by a broken word. * * * * * * * O, sweeter far than strain and stress Is the slow, creeping weariness. And better far than thought I find The drowsy blankness of the mind. More than all joys of soul or sense Is this divine indifference; Where grief a shadow grows to be, And peace a possibility.
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