Why did it sleep not? Why did it start,
When never a dish remained to shock?
What made the fluttering doze depart?
Only the tick of an eight day clock.
Be still, I said, for hope pre-supposes
A still mild mood for the sleep-slain hart;
Be still, for the wind, with its curled-up toes, is
Silent and quieter yet than thou art.
Doth a wound in thee deep as a thorn’s wound smart?
Dost thou fretfully languish for Clicquot and hock?