Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary br And would feel the fingers of the wind br Upon these lids that lie over us br Sodden and lead-heavy. br br Rest brother, for lo ! the dawn is without ! br The yellow flame paleth br And the wax runs low. br br Free us, for without be goodly colours, br Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, br And coolness beneath the trees. br br Free us, for we perish br In this ever-flowing monotony br Of ugly print marks, black br Upon white parchment. br br Free us, for there is one br Whose smile more availeth br Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: br And we would look thereon.