With profane snore taunting the solemn-pillared night—
He hath no dreams of restless, subtle forms
That shift across a feverish vacancy;
Nor doth he hear the drums of time
Beating against oblivion tunes of war,
Goading the crippled hours on their endless march—
But waketh to yawn in the face of the sun,
Then turneth back to sleep....
How soundly the wise man sleepeth,
Couched royally in the purple of the dark