 | The Village Churchyard |  |
266
SONNET.
Sleep! come, with all thy honey-dews, oh come!Weigh down with rest, these wearied lids at last,
And thy sweet clouds about my temples cast;
Breathe round me all the luxury of thy gloom,—
Oh! let me know the quiet of the tomb,
Without its chill—and bring me bright and fast,
Dear visions, happy visions of the Past!
Hope—a night-blowing flower for me doth bloom—
Bring visions of the Future too! employ
In dreams of innocent beatitude
My drooping soul, and themes of tenderest joy!
Nor shall it idly o'er such fancies brood;
They shall not fail me, and they shall not cloy;
But leave for waking hours, perchance a calmer mood!
| The Village Churchyard | |