his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
pillowed on calm pillows of Godís making
these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
these windsí scimitars;
whether yet his thin and sodden head
more and more with the low mould,
hair being one with the grey grass
finished fields of autumns that are old ...
knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold
we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!