As to a child,
I talked my heart
With empty promise of the coming day,
And it slept rather for my words made
Than from a thought of what their sense did say.
For did it care for sense, would it not
And question closer to the morrow's pleasure?
Would it not edge nearer my words, to
The promise in the meting of its measure?
So, if it slept, 'twas that it cared but
The present sleepy use of promised joy,
Thanking the fruit but for the forecome
Which the less active senses best enjoy. Thus with deceit do I detain the heart Of which deceit's self knows itself a part.
