As a vesture shalt thou change them, said the prophet,
⁠And the raiment that was flesh is turned to dust;
Dust and flesh and dust again the likeness of it,
⁠And the fine gold woven and worn of youth is rust.
Hours that wax and wane salute the shade and scoff it,
⁠That it knows not aught it doth nor aught it must:
Day by day the speeding soul makes haste to doff it,
⁠Night by night the pride of life resigns its trust.

Sleep, whose silent notes of song loud life's derange not,
⁠Takes the trust in hand awhile as angels may:
Joy with wings that rest not, grief with wings that range not,
⁠Guard the gates of sleep and waking, gold or grey.