Cul-De-Sac Poem by Edith Nesbit

COULD I hope that when the brain,
Tired of questions answerless,
Shall slip off the bonds of pain
That enslave it and possess,
I should know how little worth
Were the little things of earth.


'Does it matter,' could I say,
'Whether she were false or true?
Whether life was gold or grey?
Whether skies were grey or blue?
All this matters less, it seems,
Than the threads of broken dreams.'


We may long to rest from strife,
Cease to question or to grieve;
But the sharpest ills of life
Nothing will reverse, retrieve;
For when we at last have rest,
We shall know not we are blest.


While we know, we have the ache;
Consciousness with pain will cease.
Sleep's joy comes not while we wake--
Night of life means dawn of peace,
But of peace which cannot be
Ever known by her or me.


Bow the back beneath the cross,
Stagger on a few steps more,
Bear the doubt, the strain, the loss,
As we had to do before!
When at last the burdens fall,
We shall know it not at all.