Come to me, angel of the weary hearted!
Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I too may rest—even I: ah! haste to me.
I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, “Mother,”
And who shall soothe them if I...
sleep, sleep, sleep
In thy folded waves, O Sea!
Till the quiet breathings creep,
With a low-voiced melody,
Out of the glimmering deep.
For sleep is the close of life;
’T is the end of love, and its birth;
’T is the quieting of strife,
And the silencing of mirth.
Hush and sleep!
Close...
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to...
I waked; the sun was in the sky,
The face of heaven was fair;
The silence all about me lay,
Of morning in the air.
I said, Where hast thou been, my soul,
Since the moon set in the west?
I know not where thy feet have trod,
Nor what has been thy quest.
Where wast thou when Orion past
Below the dark-blue sea?...
We lay us down to sleep,
And leave to God the rest:
Whether to wake and weep
Or wake no more be best.
Why vex our souls with care?
The grave is cool and low,—
Have we found life so fair
That we should dread to go?
We ’ve kissed love’s sweet, red lips,
And left them sweet and red:
The rose the wild bee...
“now i lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,”
Was my childhood’s early prayer
Taught by my mother’s love and care.
Many years since then have fled;
Mother slumbers with the dead;
Yet methinks I see her now,
With love-lit eye and holy brow,
As, kneeling by her side to pray,
She gently taught me how to say,...
Sweet wooded way in life, forgetful Sleep!
Dim, drowsy realm where restful shadows fall,
And where the world’s glare enters not at all,
Or in soft glimmer making rest more deep;
Where sound comes not, or else like brooks that keep
The world’s noise out, as by a slumberous wall
Of gentlest murmur; where still whispers call
To smileless...
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—
I know it must be winter, for I dream
I dip my bare feet in the running stream,
And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.
I know I must be old (how age deceives!)—
I know I must be old, for, all unseen,
My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green,
When late rains patter on...
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...
Just ere the darkness is withdrawn,
In seasons of cold or heat,
Close to the boundary line of Dawn
These mystical brothers meet.
They clasp their weird and shadowy hands,
As they listen each to each,
But never a mortal understands
Their strange immortal speech.
