The Tired Worker
O whisper, O my soul! The afternoon Is waning into evening, whisper soft! Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon From out its misty veil will swing aloft! Be patient, weary body, soon the night Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; Come tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. But what steals out the gray clouds like red wine? O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest Weary my veins, my brain, my life! Have pity! No! Once again the harsh, the ugly city.
Claude McKay’s other poems:
881
