Until the sun received his pay—
Man counts in gold, but he in grey—
Then, whining as one daft,
A voice crept to each sleeper's ear,
And one by one sat up to hear
It soughing like a Seistan mere
Where nothing ever laughed.
A blur at elbow on the floor
Cried: "Sleep! 'Tis but the tavern door
Amoaning in the draught."