John Keats.

    XX.

    Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies,
    Shadowy bounties and supreme,
    Bring the dearest face that flies
    Following darkness like a dream!

    Andrew Lang.

    XXI.

    I have a lady as dear to me
    As the westward wind and shining sea,
    As breath of spring to the verdant lea,
    As lover’s songs and young children’s glee.

    Swiftly I pace thro’ the hours of light,
    Finding no joy in the sunshine bright,
    Waiting ’till moon and far stars are white,
    Awaiting the hours of silent night.

    Swiftly I fly from the day’s alarms,
    Too sudden desires, false joys and harms,
    Swiftly I fly to my loved one’s charms,
    Praying the clasp of her perfect arms.

    Her eyes are wonderful, dark and deep,
    Her raven tresses a midnight steep,
    But, ah, she is hard to hold and keep—­
    My lovely lady, my lady Sleep!

    Leolyn Louise Everett.

    XXII.

    Visit her, gentle Sleep!  With wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
    May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
    Silent as tho’ they watched the sleeping Earth! 
    With light heart may she rise,
    Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
    Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice.

Samuel T. Coleridge.

XXIII.

Sleep! king of gods and men! 
Come to my call again,
Swift over field and fen,

          Mountain and deep: 

Come, bid the waves be still;
Sleep, streams on height and hill;
Beasts, birds and snakes, thy will

          Conquereth, Sleep!

Come on thy golden wings,
Come ere the swallow sings,
Lulling all living things,

          Fly they or creep!

Come with thy leaden wand,
Come with thy kindly hand,
Soothing on sea or land

          Mortals that weep

Come from the cloudy west,
Soft over brain and breast,
Bidding the Dragon rest,

          Come to me, Sleep!

Andrew Lang.

XXIV.

Sleep, death without dying—­living without life.

    Edwin Arnold.

    XXV.

    She sleeps; her breathings are not heard
      In palace-chambers far apart,
    The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
      That he upon her charmed heart.

    She sleeps; on either hand upswells
      The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest;
    She sleeps, nor dreams but ever dwells
      A perfect form in perfect rest.

    Alfred Tennyson.

    XXVI.