The Quiet Lake of Sleep.
When dusky shadows have usurped the air
And Memory, with her wide and sombre eyes
Haunts every nook — I silently arise
And steal away by dreamy paths to where
Like holy incense in a house of prayer
A peace perfected softly sanctifies
The place with silence, never winds arise
Nor passion storms invade the quiet there,
But through the limpid depths my tired soul
Slips into restfulness, and on my brow
A hand from heaven is laid. Like folded sheep
My thoughts lie down in pastures, and the roll
Of wheeling worlds sinks to a slumbrous sough
That ruffles not the quiet lake of sleep.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 242