The hours are passing slow,
      I hear their weary tread
    Clang from the tower and go
      Back to their kinsfolk dead. 
    Sleep! death’s twin brother dread! 
      Why dost thou scorn me so? 
    The wind’s voice overhead
      Long wakeful here I know,
    And music from the steep
      Where waters fall and flow. 
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    All sounds that might bestow
      Rest on the fever’d bed,
    All slumb’rous sounds and low
      Are mingled here and wed,
    And bring no drowsihed. 
      Shy dreams flit to and fro
    With shadowy hair dispread;
      With wistful eyes that glow
    And silent robes that sweep. 
      Thou wilt not hear me; no? 
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    What cause hast them to show
      Of sacrifice unsped? 
    Of all thy slaves below
      I most have labored
    With service sung and said;
      Have cull’d such buds as blow,
    Soft poppies white and red,
      Where thy still gardens grow,
    And Lethe’s waters weep. 
      Why, then, art thou my foe? 
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    Prince, ere the dark be shred
      By golden shafts, ere low
    And long the shadows creep: 
      Lord of the wand of lead,
    Soft footed as the snow,
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!

    Andrew Lang.

    XXVII.

    I have loved wind and light,
      And the bright sea,
    But, holy and most secret Night,
      Not as I love and have loved thee.

    God, like all highest things,
      Hides light in shade,
    And in the night his visitings
      To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.

    Arthur Symons.

    XXVIII.

    The peace of a wandering sky,
    Silence, only the cry
    Of the crickets, suddenly still,
    A bee on the window sill,
    A bird’s wing, rushing and soft,
    Three flails that tramp in the loft,
    Summer murmuring
    Some sweet, slumberous thing,
    Half asleep: 

    Arthur Symons.

    XXIX.

    Only a little holiday of sleep,
    Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm
    Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm,
    A little sleep—­it matters not how deep;
    A little falling feather from thy wing,
    Merciful Lord,—­is it so great a thing?

    Richard Le Gallienne.

XXX.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky
I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie
Sleepless!

* * * * *

Come, blessed barrier between day and day. 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!