Praying the clasp of her perfect arms.
Her eyes are wonderful, dark and deep,
Her raven tresses a midnight steep,
But, ah, she is hard to hold and keep—
My lovely lady, my lady Sleep!
Leolyn Louise Everett.
Visit her, gentle Sleep! With wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as tho' they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice.
Samuel T. Coleridge.
Sleep! king of gods and men!
Come to my call again,
Swift over field and fen,
Mountain and deep:
Come, bid the waves be still;
Sleep, streams on height and hill;
Beasts, birds and snakes, thy will
Conquereth, Sleep!
Come on thy golden wings,
Come ere the swallow sings,
Lulling all living things,
Fly they or creep!
Come with thy leaden wand,
Come with thy kindly hand,
Soothing on sea or land
Mortals that weep
Come from the cloudy west,
Soft over brain and breast,
Bidding the Dragon rest,
Come to me, Sleep!
Andrew Lang.
Sleep, death without dying—living without life.
Edwin Arnold.
She sleeps; her breathings are not heard
In palace-chambers far apart,
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
That he upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps; on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest;
She sleeps, nor dreams but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.
Alfred Tennyson.
The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast them to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labored
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Prince, ere the dark be shred
By golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft footed as the snow,
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!
Andrew Lang.
I have loved wind and light,
And the bright sea,
But, holy and most secret Night,
Not as I love and have loved thee.
God, like all highest things,
Hides light in shade,
And in the night his visitings
To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.
Arthur Symons.
The peace of a wandering sky,
Silence, only the cry
Of the crickets, suddenly still,
A bee on the window sill,
A bird's wing, rushing and soft,
Three flails that tramp in the loft,
Summer murmuring
Some sweet, slumberous thing,
Half asleep:
Arthur Symons.
Only a little holiday of sleep,
Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm
Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm,
A little sleep—it matters not how deep;
A little falling feather from thy wing,
Merciful Lord,—is it so great a thing?
Richard Le Gallienne.
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky
I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie
Sleepless!
Come, blessed barrier between day and day.
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
William Wordsworth.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets;
Does not the sun rise smiling
When fair at eve he sets'
Anonymous.
The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own
repose,
The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the
deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean
knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its
appointed sleep.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
We lay
Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound
Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.
William Wordsworth.
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies
Than tired eye-lids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the mass the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep.
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Alfred Tennyson.
I went into the deserts of dim sleep—
That world which, like an unknown wilderness,
Bounds this with its recesses wide and deep
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life,
Come back to me, come back to me! Hold out
Your wonderful, wide arms and gather me
Again against your breast. I lay above
Your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow
As waters that obey the moon and lo,
Rest infinite was mine and calm. My soul
Is sick for want of you. Oh, Morpheus,
Heart of my weary heart, come back to me!
Leolyn Louise Everett.
Lips
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent dreams arose.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
A late lark twitters in the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.
The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
William Ernest Henley.
Oh, Sleep! it is a gentle thing
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.
Samuel T. Coleridge.
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
That stays one moment in an open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
What is more tranquil than a musk rose blowing
In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
More healthful than the leanness of dales?
More secret than a nest of nightingales?
More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
More full of visions than a high romance?
What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
Wreather of poppy buds and weeping willows!