What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart;
Only the tick of an eight-day clock.
I wait in vain for the charm that encloses
The green land of dreams in sleep’s mystical chart,
For the fruit of its trees and the breath of its roses,
More sweet than are sold in the merchants’ mart.
So close to its border, why fails my heart?
What holdeth it back, tho’ my dim brain rock?
Without, the noise of the nightman’s cart,