And shout, if he should wake too soon,—
As fruit more golden than the sun
And riper than the full-grown moon,
Conglobed in clusters, weighs them down,
Like Atlas heaped with starry signs;
And, if they’re tripped, heel over crown,
By hidden coils of mighty vines,—
Perhaps the seraph, swift to pounce,
Will hale them, vexed, to God—and He
Will only laugh, remembering, once