Oft have I thought the Muse was dead, Nor dreamed she ever needed sleep; And as a mother, when she sees Her child in slumber deep, Wakes it, to see one sign of breath -- So did I think of my love's death. Sleep, sleep, my love, and wake again, And sing the sweeter for your rest; I am too wise a parent now To think each sleep the last -- That you are dead for ever, love, Each time you sleep and do not move. |