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As to a child, I talked my heart asleep With empty promise of the coming day,
And it slept rather for my words made sleep Than from a thougt of what their sense did say. For did it care for sense, would it not wake And question closer to the morrow's pleasure?
Would it not edge nearer my words, to take
The promise in the meting of its measure?
So, if it slept, 'twas that it cared but for The present sleepy use of promised joy, Thanking the fruit but for the forecome flower Which the less active senses best enjoy.
Thus with deceit do it I detain the heart Of which deceit's self knows itself a part.
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