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 be not near? Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows; I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing, Save that most true, most beautiful,—repose. I have no heart to roam in realms of Faëry, To follow Fancy at her elfin call: I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary; Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. Paint not the Future to my fainting spirit, Though it were starred with glory like the skies; There is no gift immortals may inherit, That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes. And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never Be Memory’s downcast gaze unveiled by thee: Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
To Sleep
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