Two at my head,
Two at my feet,
One at my heart, my soul to keep.
Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease!
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.
BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
Yet, in the end, you take us all, dear Sleep—
And not as now, when, even while we drowse
The mind, still rocking like an ocean bird,
Knows itself poised upon the unknowing gulf;
1 From Parson's Pleasure by Christopher Morley, copyright 1923, George H. Doran Co., publishers.
But when, all grateful and without wild words
The dark sea-rim enfolds us, circle-round.
A clea. unrippled sea of endless calm
And on the wave, not even a lonely gull.
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 tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, As still are wont t'annoy the wallèd towne, Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet lyes Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimnyes.
From IL PENSEROSO
BY JOHN MILTON
There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid,
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen genius of the wood.
CARE-CHARMING SLEEP
BY JOHN FLETCHER
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud,
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Little hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumber like a bride.
But thou, O Sleep, bend down and give
My fevered frame apparent death;
Receive my hands, caress my brow,
And send the incense of thy breath
About my temples while I weep,
Sleep, lest thou shouldst not hear me, Sleep.
On aching balls that roam the room
Thus set thy seals as one who stirs
About the bedside of the dead
And weighs down rebel lids of eyes
That look beyond for Paradise
With silver circles from a purse:
And when thy spell is on me cast,
And thou from out my chamber passed,
If haply Wakefulness be near
Say not that I am sleeping, dear,
For oftentimes, methinks, her mood
Is wry, and not to do me good.
O God, 'twould better be if she
To wake me should delay too long,
And find with face all still and cold
Me unresponsive to her song!
The blind grows pale with dawn, and hark!
It is the matin of the lark.
Though there be virtue in thy touch
I will not pray thee overmuch,
Lest I should weary thee, and be
Cast out of all thy love by thee;
And, Sleep, I will not moan or weep
If thou wilt come to-morrow, Sleep.
Mother of balms and soothings manifold,
Quiet-breathed Night, whose brooding hours are
To whom the voices of all rest are given,
And those few stars whose scattered names are told. Far off, beyond the westward hills outrolled,
Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even, The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven, And under her, one star, a point of gold.
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