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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
SOME OF THE POETRY OF SLUMBER | 1 |
LEOLYN LOUISE EVERETT | 1 |
THE WATKINS COMPANY | 1 |
ETHEL DU FRE HOUSTON | 1 |
SLEEP-BOOK | 1 |
COLLECTED BY
NEW YORK
1910
Three hundred and twenty copies of this book have been printed on hand-made Van Gelder paper, for The Watkins Company, at the press of Styles & Cash New York, and type distributed.
This book is No.
To
who has brought the joy and beauty of dream into so many lives
I.
Peace, peace, thou over-anxious,
foolish heart,
Rest, ever-seeking soul, calm,
mad desires,
Quiet, wild dreams—this
is the time of sleep.
Hold her more close than life
itself. Forget
All the excitements of the
day, forget
All problems and discomforts.
Let the night
Take you unto herself, her
blessed self.
Peace, peace, thou over-anxious,
foolish heart,
Rest, ever-seeking soul, calm,
mad desires,
Quiet, wild dreams—this
is the time of sleep.
Leolyn Louise Everett.
II.
Sleep, softly-breathing god!
his downy wing
Was fluttering now.
Samuel T. Coleridge.
I lay in slumber’s shadowy vale
Samuel T. Coleridge.
III.
And more to lulle him in his
slumber soft,
A trickling stream from high
rock tumbling down
And ever-drizzling raine upon
the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde,
much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast
him in a swowne.
No other noyse, nor peoples
troublous cryes,
As still are wont t’annoy
the walled towne,
Might there be heard; but
carelesse Quiet lyes
Wrapt in eternal! silence
farre from enimyes.
Edmund Spenser.
IV.
The waters murmuring, With such cohort as they keep Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. Il Penseroso.
John Milton.
V.
Ye spotted snakes with double
tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be
not seen;
Newts and blind-worms do no
wrong,
Come not near our fairy
queen.
Philomel, with
melody
Sing in our sweet
lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla,
lulla, lullaby;
Never harm.
Nor spell nor
charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh
So goodnight with lullaby.
William Shakespeare.
VI.
Sleep, Silence child, sweet
father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace
to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds
and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with
grief oppressed;
Lo, by thy charming rod all
breathing things
Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness
possessed.
William Drummond of Hawthornden.
VII.
Come, Sleep, and with thy
sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams
beguile
All my fancies; that
from thence
I may feel an influence,
All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a
sliding
Let me know some little
joy!
We that suffer long
annoy
Are contented with a
thought
Through an idle fancy
wrought;
O let my joys have some abiding!
John Fletcher.
VIII.
But still let Silence trew
night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance
rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it
is time to sleep,
May pour his limbs forth on
your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred little
winged loves
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round
about your bed.
Edmund Spenser.
IX.
Care-charming Sleep, thou
easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly
thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince;
fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing
that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers,—easy,
sweet
And as a purling stream, thou
son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses;
sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind
or silver rain,
Into this prince gently, oh
gently, slide
And kiss him into slumbers
like a bride.
John Fletcher.
X.
God
hath set
Labor and rest, as day and
night, to men
Successive, and the timely
dew of sleep
Now falling with soft, slumberous
weight inclines
Our eyelids.
John Milton.
XI.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace
in thy breast’
Would I were sleep and peace so sweet to rest
William Shakespeare.
The
innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled
sleeve of care, t
The death of each day’s
life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great
Nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s
feast.
William Shakespeare.
XII.
Come, Sleep. O, Sleep!
The certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit,
the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth,
the prisoner’s release,
The indifferent judge between
the high and low.
Sir Philip Sidney.
XIII.
Close thine eyes, and sleep
secure;
Thy soul is safe, thy body
sure.
He that guards thee, he that
keeps,
Never slumbers, never sleeps.
A quiet conscience in the
breast
Has only peace, has only rest.
The wisest and the mirth of
kings
Are out of tune unless she
sings:
Then close thine eyes in peace
and sleep secure,
No sleep so sweet as thine,
no rest so sure.
Charles I, King of England.
XIV.
Oh,
Brahma, guard in sleep
The merry lambs and the complacent
kine,
The flies below the leaves
and the young mice
In the tree roots, and all
the sacred flocks
Of red flamingo; and my love
Vijaya,
And may no restless fay, with
fidget finger
Trouble his sleeping; give
him dreams of me.
William B Yeats.
XV.
Solemnly, mournfully,
Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to
toll.
Cover the embers,
And put out the
light;
Toil comes with morning,
And rest with
the night.
Dark grow the windows,
And quenched is
the fire;
Sound fades into silence,—
All footsteps
retire.
No voice in the chambers,
No sound in the
hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
XVI.
Lull me to sleep, ye winds,
whose fitful sound
Seems from some faint Aeolian
harp-string caught;
Seal up the hundred wakeful
eyes of thought
As Hermes with his lyre in
sleep profound
The hundred wakeful eyes of
Argus bound
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
XVII.
Our life is twofold:
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things
mis-named
Death and existence:
Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality.
And dreams in their development
have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and
the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our
waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off
our waking toils.
They do divide our being;
they become
A portion of ourselves as
of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;—
Lord Byron.
XVIII.
O gentle Sleep! Do they
belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion?
Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the
brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to
be free.
William Wordsworth.
XIX.
O soft embalmer of the still
midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers
and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered
from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness
divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it
pleases thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn,
my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy
poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling
charities;
Then save me, or the passed
day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many
woes;
Save me from curious conscience,
that still lords
Its strength for darkness,
burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the
oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket
of my soul.
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.
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!
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.
William Ernest Henley.
XXXIX.
Oh, Sleep! it is a gentle
thing
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be
given!
She sent the gentle sleep
from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.
Samuel T. Coleridge.
XL.
What is more gentle than a
wind in summer?
What is more soothing than
the pretty hummer
That stays one moment in an
open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower
to bower?
What is more tranquil than
a musk rose blowing
In a green island, far from
all men’s knowing?
More healthful than the leanness
of dales?
More secret than a nest of
nightingales?
More serene than Cordelia’s
countenance?
More full of visions than
a high romance?
What, but thee Sleep?
Soft closer of our eyes!
Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
Light hoverer around our happy
pillows!
Wreather of poppy buds and
weeping willows!
Silent entangler of a beauty’s
tresses!
Most happy listener! when
the morning blesses
Thee for enlivening all the
cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at
the new sun-rise.
John Keats.
XLI.
My sleep had been embroidered
with dim dreams,
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled
o’er
With flowers, and stirring
shades of baffled beams.
John Keats.
XLII.
Sleep is a blessed thing.
All my long life
I have known this, its value infinite
To man, its symbol of the perfect peace
That marks eternity, its marvellous
Relief from all the vanities and wounds,
The little battles and unrest of soul
That we call life.
Sleep is a blessed thing,
Doubly it has been taught me. All the time
I cannot have you, all the heart-sick days
Of utter yearning, of eternal ache
Of longing, longing for the sight of you,
Fade and dissolve at night and you are mine,
At least in dreams, at least in blessed dreams.
Leolyn Louise Everett.
XLIII.
Soon, trembling in her soft
and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful
swoon, perplex’d she lay
Until the poppied warmth of
sleep oppress’d
Her soothed limbs,
and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until
the morrow-day,
Blissfully haven’d
both from joy and pain,
Clasp’d like a missal
where swart Paynims pray;
Blended alike
from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose
could shut and be a bud again.
John Keats.
XLIV.
O magic sleep! O comfortable
bird,
That broodest o’er the
troubled sea of the mind
’Till it is hush’d
and smooth! O unconfin’d
Restraint! imprisoned liberty!
great key
To golden palaces, strange
John Keats.
XLV.
A
sleep
Full of sweet dreams and health
and quiet breathing.
John Keats.
XLVI.
Now is the blackest hour of the long night,
The soul of midnight. Now, the pallid stars
Shine in the highest silver and the wind
That creepeth chill across the sleeping world
Holdeth no hint of morning. I look out
Into the glory of the night with tired,
Wide, sleepless eyes and think of you. There is
The hush of some great spirit o’er the earth.
Here, in the silence earth and sky are met
And merged into infinity. Oh, God
Of all, Thou who beholdest Destiny
As simple, Thou who understandest life
From birth to re-birth, who knows all our souls,
Grant her Thy perfect benediction, rest.
Leolyn Louise Everett.