Wake not, Lady, wake not soon: 
  Through the frosty windows fall
Broken glimmers of the moon
  Dimly on the floor and wall;
Wake not, Lady, never care,
  ’Tis my spirit kneeling there.

Let him kneel a moment now,
  For the minutes fly apace;
Let him see the sleeping brow,
  And the sweetly rounded face: 
He shall tell me soon aright
  How my lady looks to-night.

How her tresses out and in
  Fold in many a curly freak,
Round about the snowy chin
  And the softly tinted cheek,
Where no sorrows now can weep,
  And the dimples lie asleep.

How her eyelids meet and match,
  Gathered in two dusky seams,
Each the little creamy thatch
  Of an azure house of dreams,
Or two flowers that love the light
  Folded softly up at night.

How her bosom, breathing low,
  Stirs the wavy coverlet
With a motion soft and slow: 
  Oh, my Lady, wake not yet;
There without a thought of guile
  Let my spirit dream a while.

Yet, my spirit back to me,
  Hurry soon and have a care;
Love will turn to agony,
  If you rashly linger there;
Bending low as spirits may,
  Touch her lips and come away.

So, fond spirit, beauty-fed,
  Turning when your wave is o’er,
Weave a cross above the bed
  And a sleep-rune on the floor,
That no evil enter there,
  Ugly shapes and dreams beware.

Then, ye looming nets of sleep,
  Ye may have me all your own,
For the night is wearing deep
  And the ice-winds whisk and moan;
Come with all your drowsy stress,
  Dreams and silent frostiness.

A SONG

    Oh night and sleep,
    Ye are so soft and deep,
I am so weary, come ye soon to me. 
    Oh hours that creep,
    With so much time to weep,
I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

    Come, night, anear;
    I’ll whisper in thine ear
What makes me so unhappy, full of care;
    Dear night, I die
    For love that all men buy
With tears, and know not it is dark despair.

    Dear night, I pray,
    How is it that men say
That love is sweet?  It is not sweet to me. 
    For one boy’s sake
    A poor girl’s heart must break;
So sweet, so true, and yet it could not be!

    Oh, I loved well,
    Such love as none can tell: 
It was so true, it could not make him know: 
    For he was blind,
    All light and all unkind: 
Oh, had he known, would he have hurt me so?

    Oh night and sleep,
    Ye are so soft and deep,
I am so weary, come ye soon to me. 
    Oh hours that creep,
    With so much time to weep,
I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

WHAT DO POETS WANT WITH GOLD?

What do poets want with gold,
  Cringing slaves and cushioned ease;
Are not crusts and garments old
  Better for their souls than these?