Peter's head grows heavy over printed words.

The day his stories picture fades and dies,

The hours swing slow and slower

Through the candle-shadow.

Brightness comes dully by a leaden effort of the eyes

Till out beyond the world of one last page

The singing darkness calls him

To an end of books.

The night is cold with age.

The darkness opens and he moves

Down to the other ageless world.

Clear and still

The night makes soft his passing over

With the soundless flow of silence.

Wind comes lightly from a sleeping hill.

There beside the closed book candles flicker out

Upon the hour, dark and deep,

When Peter can lay down his tired head

Among his dreams

And sleep.