The cock hails the morn, and the rumble
Of wheels is abroad in the streets,
Still I tumble and mumble and grumble
At the fleas in my ears and--the sheets;
Mumble and grumble and tumble
Till the buzz of the bees is no more;
In a jumble I mumble and drumble
And tumble off--into a snore.
DANIEL
[Written at the grave of an old friend.]
Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,--
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?
Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose,
When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein;
Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear;
Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions;
Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills;
Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun;
Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, snatches of music and song,
And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.
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