The simple splendor of the setting sun
Would far surpass their most superb display.
THE SLEEP OF THE SLUGGARD.
O list to an indolent lump of live lumber,
Whom slothfulness binds with invisible bands,
A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,
A little more folding together the hands.
“I’ve a villainous cold—and my head, how it aches!