The Place of Rest

The soul is its own witness and its own refuge.

Unto the deep the deep heart goes,

It lays its sadness nigh the breast:

Only the Mighty Mother knows

The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

It seeks a deeper silence still;

It folds itself around with peace,

Where thoughts alike of good or ill

In quietness unfostered cease.

It feels in the unwounding vast

For comfort for its hopes and fears:

The Mighty Mother bows at last;

She listens to her children's tears.

Where the last anguish deepens—there

The fire of beauty smites through pain:

A glory moves amid despair,

The Mother takes her child again.

Notes: First published in the Irish Theosophist December 15, 1893.