Sleep

I LAY me down before the rustic gate
That opens on the shadowed land of sleep;
I weary for its dews, and may not wait
To hear its rivers flowing, drowsy-deep.
I knock, O Sleep, the Comforter! Again
My weakness faints unto thy great caress;
The circling thought beats blindly through the brain
With dull persistency of empty pain,
And draws uncertain doubting and distress,
To prove that man unto himself is very weariness.

Upon these withered grasses is no rest;
Thy crimson-dotted mosses are denied.
I see thy wall in shining grape-vines dressed,
But know that only on the other side
Droop low the purple clusters. Take me in!
I do not fear to trust myself to thee;
Waking and danger are of closer kin,
But what hast thou to do with grief or sin ?
Imprisoned from myself, I wander free,
And not the brightest sun of day grants such security.

I would not lie to-night so near the bars,
If to thy realm fair entrance I may find,
That through them I might see our mortal stars,
And hear the passing of our earthly wind.
Not even would I wish some gentle friend
To lean against them with a loving face;
For rest and life were never willed to blend
And as I lived the day unto its end,
So would I sleep the night without a trace,
Not only of day’s sorrowing, but even of its grace.

Nor would I rest among thy garden beds,
Where fairy forms from out the flowers glance,
And catch the yellow moonlight on their heads,
To shift it swiftly in the singing dance.
Nor would I meet thy strange, fantastic folk,
Who haunt the dusk of over-bending trees,
Where bells and steeples grow upon the oak,
And all identities are held as smoke
And vapor in the hand. Nay, none of these!
Not e’en thy music mystical, that changes to a breeze.

But take me to thy kingdom’s very heart,
To slumber’s innermost enchanted cell !
Oh, lay me in thy grotto, far apart
From any sight or sound that words may tell.
Then wilt thou wrap my senses deaf and blind,
And then shall I lie face to face with thee.
So will the morning light be glad to find
Thy fragrance clinging to my waking mind;
But what thy lips did whisper unto me
I ’ll bear too fine for consciousness, too deep for memory.

Then let me in beyond thy rustic gate,
O Sleep, the Comforter! Ah, let me in !
For even as I pray the night grows late,
And not one blossom does my pleading win.
Others have won where I may not avail,
The children and the good by thousands pass;
Yea, guilty feet tread on where mine must fail,
For thou art kind as death. The faces pale
Of myriad sleepers gleam in thy sweet grass,
And only I am left without to weep and cry Alas!

Yet thou wilt take me in with all the rest,
And walk among us in thine angelhood;
And we shall wake, and know we have been blessed,
If unawares, and that thy presence stood
In mercy by each weary son of earth,
To make us spirit sons of God once more.
With plenty wilt thou satisfy the dearth,
With strength the weakness, and another birth
Will each red morning to our souls restore, —
The gate by which we leave thy land, a new life’s open door.