ODE TO SLEEP.

I cannot veil mine eyelids from the light; I cannot turn away From this insulting and importunate day, That momently grows fiercer and more bright, And wakes the hideous hum of monstrous flies In my vexed ear, and beats On the broad panes, and like a furnace heats The chamber of my rest, and bids me rise.

I cannot follow thy departing track, Nor tell in what far meadows, gentle Sleep, Thou art delaying. I would win thee back, Were mine some drowsy potion, or dull spell, Or charmèd girdle, mighty to compel Thy heavy grace; for I have heard it said, Thou art no flatterer, that dost only keep In kingly haunts, leaving unvisited The poor man’s lowlier shed; And when the day is joyless, and its task Unprofitable, I were fain to ask, Why thou wilt give it such an ample space, Why thou wilt leave us such a weary scope For memory, and for that which men call hope, Nor wind in one embrace Sad eve and night forlorn And undelightful morn.

If with the joyous were thine only home, I would not so far wrong thee, as to ask This boon, or summon thee from happier task. But no,—for then thou wouldst too often roam And find no rest; for me, I cannot tell What tearless lids there are, where thou mightst dwell. I know not any, unenthralled of sorrow, I know not one, to whom this joyous morrow, So full of living motion new and bright, Will be a summons to secure delight. And thus I shall not harm thee, though I claim Awhile thy presence—O mysterious Sleep. Some call thee shadow of a mightier Name, And whisper how that nightly thou dost keep A roll and count for him.— Then be thou on my spirit like his presence dim.

Yet if my limbs were heavy with sweet toil, I had not needed to have wooed thy might, But till thy timely flight Had lain securely in thy peaceful coil. Or if my heart were lighter, long ago Had crushed the dewy morn upon the sod, Darkening where I trod, As was my pleasure once, but now it is not so.

And therefore am I seeking to entwine A coronal of poppies for my head, Or wreathe it with a wreath engarlanded By Lethe’s slumberous waters. Oh! that mine Were some dim chamber turning to the north, With latticed casement, bedded deep in leaves, That opening with sweet murmur might look forth On quiet fields from broad o’erhanging eaves, And ever when the Spring her garland weaves, Were darkened with encroaching ivy-trail And jaggèd vine-leaves’ shade; And all its pavement starred with blossoms pale Of jasmine, when the wind’s least stir was made; Where the sun-beam were verdurous-cool, before It wound into that quiet nook, to paint With interspace of light and colour faint That tesselated floor. How pleasant were it there in dim recess, In some close-curtained haunt of quietness, To hear no tones of human pain and care, Our own or others, little heeding there, If morn or noon or night Pursued their weary flight, But musing what an easy thing it were To mix our opiates in a larger cup, And drink, and not perceive Sleep deepening lead his truer kinsman up, Like undistinguished Night, darkening the skirts of Eve.