O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.