Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces;
And yet so humble, too, as not to scorn
The meanest country cottages;
His poppy grows among the corn.
The halcyon sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast.
’Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do,
’Tis not enough; he must find quiet too.