Again he sinks, the slave of every vile pretence.
When light of dawn paints bright the blushing sky with red,
Ere orb of day comes forth as bridegroom from his bed,
Shrill chanticleer, as though it were last judgment’s trump,
Calls back to consciousness the sleepers. Up they jump.
The souls return their bodies to inhabit, then;
Each body fraught with thoughts, and words, and deeds again.80
The soul turned loose, without the body’s cares or ken,
Attests the truth: “Sleep is death’s brother,”[90] to all men.
But lest it should escape, and not come back at call,