Oft have I thought the Muse was dead,
   Nor dreamed she ever needed sleep;
And as a mother, when she sees
   Her child in slumber deep,
Wakes it, to see one sign of breath -
So did I think of my love's death.

Sleep, sleep, my love, and wake again,
   And sing the sweeter for your rest;
I am too wise a parent now
   To think each sleep the last -
That you are dead for ever, love,
Each time you sleep and do not move.