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As a fond
mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her
little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to
be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor
wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others
in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not
please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes
away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing
if we wished to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep
to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what
we know.
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