Interlude

There are times, as when with violent fatigue pressed,
And keen to indulge in a wasteful, willful thought,
When though yet with beauty and youthful awe blessed,
One little cares for what his heedless hand has wrought,
And would rather lay a sleeping head on earthly breast.
Then thinking as if all trembling passion now has ceased,
And leaning to a motherly bust, he'd seek soothing sleep,
To abjure both lively emotion and all worrying fears;
And no aspiration nor worthy ambition he would keep,
But in sanctuary lay, and not wake up in thousand years.