My lovely lady, my lady Sleep!

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

Andrew Lang

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

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

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

Sleep, death without dying—living without life.

Edwin Arnold

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

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

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

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