"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.'"