How generously into its soft yielding lap
The bed receives us now,
And its strong arms
Fold us about as a mother folds her children,—
Comforting, and long-accustomed, and secure.
Unquestioning our deserts;
Unfailing; never denying;
Never refusing our weariness;
Taking our weariness from us like a burden.
To petulance, to discomfort,
Answering with soft answers;
Smoothing away with silence our sorrows,
Till in those faithful friendly arms
We are enwrapped with quietness and content;
With old well-being of sleep.