XXVI.

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.