Classic Poem

“C HOW detail!”—in the ordered rush,
No gentleman would ever shirk;
How can I hear Pan's silver pipes,
Amid the grinding wheels of work?

But gentle Night sets free my soul,
For the brief moment ere I sleep;
Rejoicing in its liberty
It walks dream valleys, folded deep.

It gathers golden threads of verse
And falls asleep amid bright skeins,
And, furtively, Reality
Binds it again in Routine chains.