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_.
XXVII.
I have loved wind and light,
And the bright sea,
But, holy and most secret Night,
Not as I love and have loved thee.
God, like all highest things,
Hides light in shade,
And in the night his visitings
To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.
_Arthur Symons_.
XXVIII.
The peace of a wandering sky,
Silence, only the cry
Of the crickets, suddenly still,
A bee on the window sill,
A bird's wing, rushing and soft,
Three flails that tramp in the loft,
Summer murmuring
Some sweet, slumberous thing,
Half asleep:
_Arthur Symons_.
XXIX.
Only a little holiday of sleep,
Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm
Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm,
A little sleep--it matters not how deep;
A little falling feather from thy wing,
Merciful Lord,--is it so great a thing?
_Richard Le Gallienne_.
XXX.
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky
I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie
Sleepless!
* * * * *
Come, blessed barrier between day and day.
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