Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:
O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state
While half the world still for their coffee wait.
II.
Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,
Command my muse to plume her wayward wing
For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace
Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing
Of that more blissful twilight of the soul —
Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,