William Wordsworth.

XXXI.

    Sleep is a reconciling,

    A rest that peace begets;
    Does not the sun rise smiling
    When fair at eve he sets’

    Anonymous.

    XXXII.

    The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own
      repose,
    The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the
      deep;
    Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean
      knows;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its
appointed sleep.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

XXXIII.

         We lay
    Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound
    Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
    To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts
    Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.

William Wordsworth.

    XXXIV.

    There is sweet music here that softer falls
      Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
    Or night-dews on still waters between walls
      Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
    Music that gentlier on the spirit lies
      Than tired eye-lids upon tired eyes;
    Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
      Here are cool mosses deep,
    And thro’ the mass the ivies creep,
      And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. 
    And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

    Alfred Tennyson.

    XXXV.

    I went into the deserts of dim sleep—­
    That world which, like an unknown wilderness,
    Bounds this with its recesses wide and deep

    Percy Bysshe Shelley.

    XXXVI.

    Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life,
    Come back to me, come back to me!  Hold out
    Your wonderful, wide arms and gather me
    Again against your breast.  I lay above
    Your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow
    As waters that obey the moon and lo,
    Rest infinite was mine and calm.  My soul
    Is sick for want of you.  Oh, Morpheus,
    Heart of my weary heart, come back to me!

Leolyn Louise Everett.

XXXVII.

         Lips
    Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
    Of innocent dreams arose.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

XXXVIII.

    A late lark twitters in the quiet skies;
    And from the west,
    Where the sun, his day’s work ended,
    Lingers in content,
    There falls on the old, gray city
    An influence luminous and serene,
    A shining peace.

    The smoke ascends
    In a rosy-and-golden haze.  The spires
    Shine, and are changed.  In the valley
    Shadows rise.  The lark sings on.  The sun,
    Closing his benediction,
    Sinks, and the darkening air
    Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—­
    Night with her train of stars
    And her great gift of sleep.