Hush, lullay.

Your treasures all

Encrust with rust,

Your trinket pleasures fall

        To dust.



Beneath the sapphire arch,

Upon the grassy floor,

Is nothing more

        To hold,

And play is over-old.

Your eyes

        In sleepy fever gleam,

Their lids droop

        To their dream.

You wander late alone,

The flesh frets on the bone,

Your love fails in your breast,

Here is the pillow.

Rest.