Sleep

In a tangled, scented hollow, On a bed of crimson roses, Stilly now the wind reposes; Hardly can the breezes borrow Breath to stir the night-swept river. Motionless the water-sedges, And within the dusky hedges Sounds no leaf’s impatient shiver. Sleep has come, that rare rest-giver. Light and song have flown away With the sun and twilight swallow; Scarcely will the unknown morrow Bring again so sweet a day. Song was born of Joy and Thought; Light, of Love and her caress. Nothing’s left me but a tress; Death and Sleep the rest have wrought— Death and Sleep, who came unsought.

Collection: 
English
Lewis Frank Tooker

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