And so, as all tired people do,
They’ve gone to lay their sleepy heads
Deep deep in warm and happy beds. 
The sun has shut his golden eye
And gone to sleep beneath the sky,
The birds and butterflies and bees
Have all crept into flowers and trees,
And all lie quiet, still as mice,
Till morning comes—­like father’s voice.

So Geoffrey, Owen, Phyllis, you
Must sleep away till morning too. 
Close little eyes, down little heads,
And sleep—­sleep—­sleep in happy beds.

AN EPITAPH ON A GOLDFISH

(WITH APOLOGIES TO ARIEL)

Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies,
  Here last September was he laid,
Poppies these that were his eyes,
  Of fish-bones were these bluebells made. 
His fins of gold that to and fro
Waved and waved so long ago,
Still as petals wave and wave
To and fro above his grave. 
Hearken too! for so his knell
Tolls all day each tiny bell.

BEAUTY ACCURST

I am so fair that wheresoe’er I wend
  Men yearn with strange desire to kiss my face,
Stretch out their hands to touch me as I pass,
  And women follow me from place to place.

A poet writing honey of his dear
  Leaves the wet page,—­ah! leaves it long to dry. 
The bride forgets it is her marriage-morn,
  The bridegroom too forgets as I go by.

Within the street where my strange feet shall stray
  All markets hush and traffickers forget,
In my gold head forget their meaner gold,
  The poor man grows unmindful of his debt.

Two lovers kissing in a secret place,
  Should I draw nigh,—­will never kiss again;
I come between the king and his desire,
  And where I am all loving else is vain.

Lo! when I walk along the woodland way
  Strange creatures leer at me with uncouth love,
And from the grass reach upward to my breast,
  And to my mouth lean from the boughs above.

The sleepy kine move round me in desire
  And press their oozy lips upon my hair,
Toads kiss my feet and creatures of the mire,
  The snails will leave their shells to watch me there.

But all this worship, what is it to me? 
  I smite the ox and crush the toad in death: 
I only know I am so very fair,
  And that the world was made to give me breath.

I only wait the hour when God shall rise
  Up from the star where he so long hath sat,
And bow before the wonder of my eyes
  And set me there—­I am so fair as that.

TO A DEAD FRIEND

And is it true indeed, and must you go,
  Set out alone across that moorland track,
No love avail, though we have loved you so,
  No voice have any power to call you back? 
And losing hands stretch after you in vain,
  And all our eyes grow empty for your lack,
Nor hands, nor eyes, know aught of you again.