Classic Poem

ALL THINGS reach up to take the Year's last gift,
Then slowly sleepward drift.
Be not deceived if some charmed bush or hedge
Laugh out, on Winter's edge,
Bidding you pluck a flower as you go by,
And trust the yet bland sky.
Be not deceived, the sands are well outrun,
The gala-day is done:
There is no fruit can ripen from a flower
That dares the borrowed hour!
To sleep, to sleep, to sleep, and ask no more
To put within your store;
For, if you have not gathered, 'tis too late —
Swings to, Oblivion's gate.

Be not deceived that yester-evening heard
A flock-abandoned bird.
Against the clear, old-ivory West, sharp-limned,
His broken song he hymned:
But sleep now claims his solitary breast
That was the orchard's guest:
The leaves that loved the bird — they, too, asleep,
His little shape will keep.
Earth sleeps in stillness now, and all of hers,
Obedient vanishers,
Into their chosen cubicles withdrawn,
Stir not at any dawn;
Nor any time unless the wild mice dance,
When the round moon enchants,
Upon a floor polished with frosty fire
And then again retire.
No one will fret or strive to keep awake
But will the feast partake
Of sleep — of sleep-on-sleep, while turns the sphere;
Still here — and yet not here!

Who knows, of us, who heard the sleepward call,
If we be waking all?
If just at one pale moment when the chill
Seemed to o'ercome the will,
We sank not to some deeper blest estate
Where suasive dreams await?
Nor may I know, if me such magic keep
I speak these words in sleep!