Yea, all men sleep who toiled throughout the day
At sport or work, and had their fill of sound,
The jest and laughter that we mate with play,
The beat of hoofs, the mill-wheel grinding round,
The anvil's note on summer breezes borne,
The sickle's sweep in fields of yellow corn.

And I too, as the hours go softly by,
Lie and forget, and yield to sleep's behest,
Leave for a space the world without a sigh,
And pass through silence into dreamless rest;
Like a tired swimmer floating tranquilly
Full in the tide upon a peaceful sea.

But hark, that sound! Again and yet again!
Darkness is cleft, the stricken silence breaks,
And sleep's soft veil is rudely rent in twain,
And weary nature all too soon, awakes;
Though through the gloom has pierced no ray of light,
To hail the dawn and bid farewell to night.

Still is it night, the world should yet sleep on,
And gather strength to meet the distant morn.
But one there is who, though no ray has shone,
Waits not, nor sleeps, but laughs all rest to scorn,
The demon-bird that crows his hideous jeer,
Restless, remorseless, hateful Chanticleer.

One did I say? Nay, hear them as they cry;
Six more accept the challenge of the foe: