Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking

Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,

High pillowed on calm pillows of God’s making

Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,

And these winds’ scimitars;

—Or whether yet his thin and sodden head

Confuses more and more with the low mould,

His hair being one with the grey grass

And finished fields of autumns that are old ...

Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!

He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold

Than we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!