Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/200



As a vesture shalt thou change them, said the prophet, And the raiment that was flesh is turned to dust; Dust and flesh and dust again the likeness of it, And the fine gold woven and worn of youth is rust. Hours that wax and wane salute the shade and scoff it, That it knows not aught it doth nor aught it must: Day by day the speeding soul makes haste to doff it, Night by night the pride of life resigns its trust.

Sleep, whose silent notes of song loud life's derange not, Takes the trust in hand awhile as angels may: Joy with wings that rest not, grief with wings that range not, Guard the gates of sleep and waking, gold or grey.