Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 103, May, 1866 - Various - Страница 4

'Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep

My little lambs are folded like the flocks;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep

Their solitary watch on tower and steep;

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that time unlocks

Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries aloud: "Remember Barmecide,

And tremble to be happy with the rest!"

And I make answer: "I am satisfied;

I dare not ask; I know not what is best;

God hath already said what shall betide."