 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
INVOCATION TO SLEEP
I
There is a rest for all things. On still nightsThere is a folding of a world of wings—
The bees in unknown woods,
The painted dragonflies, and downy broods
In dizzy poplar heights—
Rest for innumerable nameless things,
Rest for the creatures underneath the sea,
And in the earth, and in the starry air.
It comes to heavier sorrow than I bear,
To pain, and want, and crime, and dark despair
And yet comes not to me!
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II
One that has fared a long and toilsome wayAnd sinks beneath the burden of the day,
O delicate Sleep,
Brings thee a soul that he would have thee keep
A captive in thy shadowy domain
With Puck and Ariel and the happy train
That people dreamland. Give unto his sight
Immortal shapes, and fetch to him again
His Psyche that went out into the night!
III
Thou that dost hold the priceless gift of rest,
Strew lotus leaf and poppy on his breast;
Reach forth thy hand
And lead him to thy castle in the land
All vainly sought—
To those hushed chambers lead him, where the thought
Wanders at will upon enchanted ground,
And never human footfall makes a sound
Along the corridors.
Strew lotus leaf and poppy on his breast;
Reach forth thy hand
And lead him to thy castle in the land
All vainly sought—
To those hushed chambers lead him, where the thought
Wanders at will upon enchanted ground,
And never human footfall makes a sound
Along the corridors.
The bell sleeps in the belfry—from its tongue
A drowsy murmur floats into the air
Like thistle-down. There is no bough but seems
Weighted with slumber—slumber everywhere!
Couched on her leaf, the lily sways and dips;
In the green dusk where joyous birds have sung
Sits Silence with her finger on her lips;
Shy woodland folk and sprites that haunt the streams
Are pillowed now in grottoes cool and deep;
But I in chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis of thy castle gate,
Longing to see the charmèd door of dreams
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate Sleep!
A drowsy murmur floats into the air
Like thistle-down. There is no bough but seems
Weighted with slumber—slumber everywhere!
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In the green dusk where joyous birds have sung
Sits Silence with her finger on her lips;
Shy woodland folk and sprites that haunt the streams
Are pillowed now in grottoes cool and deep;
But I in chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis of thy castle gate,
Longing to see the charmèd door of dreams
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate Sleep!
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |