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 thought 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 I detain the heart

Of which deceit's self knows itself a part.