No, nothing is asleep in this demesne
      Of scrub pine, washed-out oak; the wet
             Intrudes on every cache,
             And feathered throats complain
That the rude wind is tramping through the brush
                      In streams of sweat.

There are deep holes beneath the sodden thatch
        And under rocks and rotten logs,
                Where you may press your eyes
                Like fingers on a latch
Opening caverns pungent with surprise:
                     Three watchful dogs

With eyes as big as candles or chime-clocks
        Sit on a heaped-up treasury
                And will not wink or doze.
                But where’s the tinder box
To fetch the sleeping princess in her nightclothes
                For privacy,

Or kindle the vault where Juliet lies asleep
        Dreaming of sunlight on a sheet?
                Under the spongy turf
                Not closeted or deep
A girl lies dead: and the dying needles beat
                         On her face like surf.