OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEPBed is the boon for me!It’s well to bake and sweep,But hear the word of old Lizette:It’s better than all to sleep.Summer and flowers are gay,And morning light and dew;But aged eyelids love the darkWhere never a light peeps through.What!—open-eyed, my dears?Thinking your hearts will break.There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say,That’s worth the lying awake!I learned it in my youth—Love I was dreaming of!I learned it from the needle-workThat took the place of love.I learned it from the yearsAnd what they brought about;From song, and from the hills of joyWhere sorrow sought me out.It’s good to dream and turn,And turn and dream, or fallTo comfort with my pack of bones,And know of nothing at all!Yes, never know at all!If prowlers mew or bark,Nor wonder if it’s three o’clockOr four o’clock of the dark.When the longer shades have fallenAnd the last wearinessHas brought the sweetest gift of life,The last forgetfulness.If a sound as of old leavesStir the last bed I keep,Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette—She’s turning in her sleep!”AGNES LEE
Bed is the boon for me!It’s well to bake and sweep,But hear the word of old Lizette:It’s better than all to sleep.Summer and flowers are gay,And morning light and dew;But aged eyelids love the darkWhere never a light peeps through.What!—open-eyed, my dears?Thinking your hearts will break.There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say,That’s worth the lying awake!I learned it in my youth—Love I was dreaming of!I learned it from the needle-workThat took the place of love.I learned it from the yearsAnd what they brought about;From song, and from the hills of joyWhere sorrow sought me out.It’s good to dream and turn,And turn and dream, or fallTo comfort with my pack of bones,And know of nothing at all!Yes, never know at all!If prowlers mew or bark,Nor wonder if it’s three o’clockOr four o’clock of the dark.When the longer shades have fallenAnd the last wearinessHas brought the sweetest gift of life,The last forgetfulness.If a sound as of old leavesStir the last bed I keep,Then say, my dears: “It’s old Lizette—She’s turning in her sleep!”
AGNES LEE