 | The Poetical Works of David Gray |  |
195
Sleep.
O precious Morphia! I sanctifyThe soothing power that in a painless swoon
Laps my weak limbs, giving me strength to lie,
Till sacred dawn increases unto noon:
Then when, from highest meridional height,
The sun devolves, and cooling breezes wake,
It is a comfort and divine delight
The weary bed exhausted to forsake,
And bathe my temples in the blessed air.
But when day wanes, and the wind-moaning night
Deepens to darkness, then thy virtue rare,
O dream-creative liquid! brings delight,
Thy silver drops, diffusive, kindly steep
The senses in the golden juice of sleep.
| The Poetical Works of David Gray | |