Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
_William Wordsworth_.
XXXI.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets;
Does not the sun rise smiling
When fair at eve he sets'
_Anonymous_.
XXXII.
The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own
repose,
The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the
deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean
knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its
appointed sleep.
_Percy Bysshe Shelley_.
XXXIII.
We lay
Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound
Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.
_William Wordsworth_.
XXXIV.
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 tired eye-lids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the mass the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep.
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
_Alfred Tennyson_.
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