HOW soundly sleepeth the fool,
With profane snore taunting the solemn-pillared night—
He hath no dreams of restless, subtle forms
That shift across a feverish vacancy;
Nor doth he hear the drums of time
Beating against oblivion tunes of war,
Goading the crippled hours on their endless march—
But waketh to yawn in the face of the sun,
Then turneth back to sleep. . . .
With profane snore taunting the solemn-pillared night—
He hath no dreams of restless, subtle forms
That shift across a feverish vacancy;
Nor doth he hear the drums of time
Beating against oblivion tunes of war,
Goading the crippled hours on their endless march—
But waketh to yawn in the face of the sun,
Then turneth back to sleep. . . .
How soundly the wise man sleepeth,
Couched royally in the purple of the dark
With his white mistress, Peace—
And when the morning stealeth on his rest,
As a rose he doth pluck her from the spreading tree of days,
And reviveth his heart
With the perfume of the world. . . .
But 'twixt the wise and the foolish
Many nights shed sorrow and fear,
And nets are spread for timid feet,
And the waves beat on the shifting sand. . . .
Couched royally in the purple of the dark
With his white mistress, Peace—
And when the morning stealeth on his rest,
As a rose he doth pluck her from the spreading tree of days,
And reviveth his heart
With the perfume of the world. . . .
But 'twixt the wise and the foolish
Many nights shed sorrow and fear,
And nets are spread for timid feet,
And the waves beat on the shifting sand. . . .
1918