The weary Day has leaned her head in slumber On Evening's breast; Her songs and sighs and voices without number Are hushed to rest, While somber Midnight veils, with tender grace, Her sleeping face. Now, from some mystic realm, unknown to mortals, Where silence deep Reigns evermore, through softly-gliding portals, Comes blessed Sleep, And with her lotus-blooms and poppy leaves A garland weaves. A thousand hands lie motionless in slumber; A thousand eyes, Kissed by Repose, gaze through her gates of wonder On paradise;— Poor weary eyes! so often wet with tears, And dim with fears! Poor hearts! so many with a load of sorrow, A hidden care! O may they gather strength to meet the morrow, And nobly bear The ceaseless struggle and the silent strife That men call "life"; And may the joy that sometimes throws a glimmer Across their way— Pale as the silvery shreds of moonlight shimmer At dawn of day— O may it through their dreams like music steal, And bless, and heal! And while these countless stars in solemn splendor Their vigil keep, O Father, let Thy hand, so kind and tender, Protect their sleep! The morn will bear its song of praise to Thee From them, and me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGINE by MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS ON GROWING OLD by JOHN MASEFIELD A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE MONITOR'S FIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE A SUPPLEMENT OF AN IMPERFECT COPY OF VERSES OF MR. WILL. SHAKESPEARE'S by JOHN SUCKLING BEAUREGARD by CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD |