X.As to a child, I talked my heart asleepWith empty promise of the coming day,And it slept rather for my words made sleepThan from a thought of what their sense did say.For did it care for sense, would it not wakeAnd question closer to the morrow’s pleasure?Would it not edge nearer my words, to takeThe promise in the meting of its measure?So, if it slept, ’twas that it cared but forThe present sleepy use of promised joy,Thanking the fruit but for the forecome flowerWhich the less active senses best enjoy.Thus with deceit do I detain the heartOf which deceit’s self knows itself a part.
As to a child, I talked my heart asleepWith empty promise of the coming day,And it slept rather for my words made sleepThan from a thought of what their sense did say.For did it care for sense, would it not wakeAnd question closer to the morrow’s pleasure?Would it not edge nearer my words, to takeThe promise in the meting of its measure?So, if it slept, ’twas that it cared but forThe present sleepy use of promised joy,Thanking the fruit but for the forecome flowerWhich the less active senses best enjoy.Thus with deceit do I detain the heartOf which deceit’s self knows itself a part.