A poem by William Arthur Dunkerley

Fold up the tent!
The sun is in the West.
To-morrow my untented soul will range
Among the blest.
And I am well content,
For what is sent, is sent,
And God knows best.

Fold up the tent,
And speed the parting guest!
The night draws on, though night and day are one
On this long quest.
This house was only lent
For my apprenticement--
What is, is best.

Fold up the tent!
Its slack ropes all undone,
Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,--
Its work is done.
But mine--tho' spoiled and spent
Mine earthly tenement--
Is but begun.

Fold up the tent!
Its tenant would be gone,
To fairer skies than mortal eyes
May look upon.
All that I loved has passed,
And left me at the last

Fold up the tent!
Above the mountain's crest,
I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear,--
"To rest! To rest!"
And I am glad to go,
For the sweet oil is low,
And rest is best!

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