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
There we go, scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
    Being too full of sleep to understand
    How far the unknown transcends
    The what we know.