28.10.2007, 14:40
TO THE GENIUS OF ETERNAL SLUMBER.
SLEEP, that art named eternal ! Is there then
No chance of waking in thy noiseless realm ?
Come there no fretful dreams to overwhelm
The feverish spirits of o'erlaboured men ?
Shall conscience sleep where thou art ; and shall pain
Lie folded with tired arms around her head ;
And memory be stretched upon a bed
Of ease, whence she shall never rise again ?
O sleep, that art eternal ! Say, shall Love
Breathe like an infant slumbering at thy breast ?
Shall hope there cease to throb ; and shall the smart
Of things impossible at length find rest ?
Thou answerest not. The poppy-heads above
Thy calm brows sleep. How cold, how still thou art !
SLEEP, that art named eternal ! Is there then
No chance of waking in thy noiseless realm ?
Come there no fretful dreams to overwhelm
The feverish spirits of o'erlaboured men ?
Shall conscience sleep where thou art ; and shall pain
Lie folded with tired arms around her head ;
And memory be stretched upon a bed
Of ease, whence she shall never rise again ?
O sleep, that art eternal ! Say, shall Love
Breathe like an infant slumbering at thy breast ?
Shall hope there cease to throb ; and shall the smart
Of things impossible at length find rest ?
Thou answerest not. The poppy-heads above
Thy calm brows sleep. How cold, how still thou art !