Ode To Sleep
Gentle divinity, how have I merited?
Whither, unfortunate wretch, have I strayed,
Thus of thy bounty to lie disenherited -
I alone whilst every other is paid?
Sleeping are cattle and birds without number,
Beasts of the wilderness rest in their lair;
Even the hills, as if weary, feign slumber,
Even the torment sighs soft in the air.
Lulled are the shuttering waves of the ocean,
Seas in the lap of the land lie at peace.
Only for me in monotonous motion
Day follows day, and there comes no release.
Moonlight & starlight & light of the morning
Seven times flit o'er my feverish cheek.
Once again Dawn's chilly hand offers warning.
Whither, oh whither for rest shall I seek?
Had I the eyes of an Argus, nor heeded
Ever to keep my whole body awake -
Half of the sentries alone being needed -
Still I could never my slumber-thirst slake.
Yet - if there's one in the arms of a lover
Scornful of sleep and the joy that sleep brings,
Come thou to me! I'll not ask thee to cover
My eyes with the fullest extant of thy wings
Happier suitors may sue for such blessing,
I'll beg a touch, be it ever so slight,
Of thy wand, or a whisk of thy garment caressing
My eyelids to droop as it crosses the night.
poem by Pablius Papinius Statius
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A Fisherman's Baby
Oh hush, little baby, thy papa's at sea;
The big billows rock him as mamma rocks thee.
He hastes to his dear ones o'er billows of foam;
Then sleep, little darling, till papa comes home.
Sleep, little baby; hush, little baby;
Papa is coming, no longer to roam.
The shells and the pebbles, all day tossed about,
Are lulled into sleep by the tide ebbing out.
The tired shore slumbers, stretched out in the sand,
While the waves hurry off at mid-ocean's command.
Then hush, little darling; sleep, little darling;
Sleep, baby, rocked by thy mother's own hand.
The winds that have rollicked all day in the west
Are hushed into sleep on the calm evening's breast.
The boats that were out with the wild sea at play
Are now rocked to sleep in the arms of the bay.
Then rest, little baby; sleep, little baby;
Papa will come at the break of the day.
Sleep, little darling; too soon thou wilt be
A man like thy father, to sail o'er the sea.
Then sleep will not come at thy bidding or prayer,
For thou wilt be harassed by danger and care.
Then sleep, little darling; rest, little baby;
Rest whilst thou may, dear, and sleep whilst thou dare.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Fasting
'Tis morning now, yet silently I stand,
Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,
Look out while darkness overspreads the way,
And long for day.
Calm peace is frighted with my mood to-night,
Nor visits my dull chamber with her light,
To guide my senses into her sweet rest
And leave me blest.
Long hours since the city rocked and sung
Itself to slumber: only the stars swung
Aloft their torches in the midnight skies
With watchful eyes.
No sound awakes; I, even, breathe no sigh,
Nor hear a single footstep passing by;
Yet I am not alone, for now I feel
A presence steal
Within my chamber walls; I turn to see
The sweetest guest that courts humanity;
With subtle, slow enchantment draws she near,
And Sleep is here.
What care I for the olive branch of Peace?
Kind Sleep will bring a thrice-distilled release,
Nepenthes, that alone her mystic hand
Can understand.
And so she bends, this welcome sorceress,
To crown my fasting with her light caress.
Ah, sure my pain will vanish at the bliss
Of her warm kiss.
But still my duty lies in self-denial;
I must refuse sweet Sleep, although the trial
Will reawaken all my depth of pain.
So once again
I lift the curtain with a weary hand,
With more than sorrow, silently I stand,
Look out while darkness overspreads the way,
And long for day.
"Go, Sleep," I say, "before the darkness die,
To one who needs you even more than I,
For I can bear my part alone, but he
Has need of thee.
"His poor tired eyes in vain have sought relief,
His heart more tired still, with all its grief;
His pain is deep, while mine is vague and dim,
Go thou to him.
"When thou hast fanned him with thy drowsy wings,
And laid thy lips upon the pulsing strings
That in his soul with fret and fever burn,
To me return."
She goes. The air within the quiet street
Reverberates to the passing of her feet;
I watch her take her passage through the gloom
To your dear home.
Beloved, would you knew how sweet to me
Is this denial, and how fervently
I pray that Sleep may lift you to her breast,
And give you rest--
A privilege that she alone can claim.
Would that my heart could comfort you the same,
But in the censer Sleep is swinging high,
All sorrows die.
She comes not back, yet all my miseries
Wane at the thought of your calm sleeping eyes--
Wane, as I hear the early matin bell
The dawn foretell.
And so, dear heart, still silently I stand,
Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,
The long, long night has bitter been and lone,
But now 'tis gone.
Dawn lights her candles in the East once more,
And darkness flees her chariot before;
The Lenten morning breaks with holy ray,
And it is day!
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Let The Night Sleep
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With the night I sleep
Beyond the world to peep
Universe will sleep
Plants and trees
Birds and bees
Stars and moon
To sleep very soon!
Fruits and flowers
Joy with showers
Will sleep with me and the night
Not to keep the life very tight!
No dawn of the day
Right upto the dooms day!
Sleep permanent
In the world impermanent
I'll sleep without light
My agonies will sleep
My worries will sleep
My pains will sleep
My sins will sleep!
While in sleep
I am pure
I am peace
I am noble!
While my body is asleep
Awake my soul I keep
Sleep akin to death
Death akin to sleep in mirth?
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With night I sleep
Sleep to eternity
Soul to merge in Divinity!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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Cradle Song Of The Cossack Mother
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby,
Slumber calmly, sleep—
Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber,
In thy cradle creep;
I will tell to thee a story,
Pure as dewdrop glow,
Close those two beloved eyelids—
Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o’er its pebbles
Blusters through the vale,
On its shores the little Khirgez
Whets his murdrous blade;
Yet thy father grey in battle—
Guards thee, child of woe,
Safely rest thee in thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee,
Danger, slaughterous fire—
Thou shalt on a charger gallop,
Curbing at desire;
And a saddle girth all silken
Sadly I will sew,
Slumber now my wide-eyed darling,
Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being,
As a Cossack true,
Must I only convoy give thee—
“Mother dear, adieu!”
Nightly in the empty chamber
Blinding tears will flow,
Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one,
Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I’ll wait lamenting
As the days go by,
Ardent for thee praying,—fearing
In the cards to spy.
I shall fancy thou wilt suffer,
As a stranger grow—
Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest,
Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image
’Gainst the foe with thee,
To it kneeling, dearest Being,
Pray with piety!
Think of me in bloody battle,
Dearest child of woe,
Slumber soft within thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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The Sister's Lullaby
You would not slumber
If laid at my breast:
You would not slumber.
The river-flood beats
The swan from her nest:
You would not slumber.
And like that quick flood
My blood goes unguessed:
You would not slumber.
Times without number
Has called the wood quest:
Times without number.
As oft as she called
To me you were pressed:
Times without number.
Now you'd not slumber
If laid at my breast
Times without number.
O starling reed-resting,
I’ll rock you to rest:
So you will slumber.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Monster Presiding Dreams, Not My Wake. There I Drove Him With A Stake
I lay there wrapped
in very bushy arms
Whispers ‘sleep now
I am here’
With the warmth
washing of this love,
I drift to a place
that is unknown
I see at play our children
Flowers fit for
a wedding day
perhaps I am skinny
having wine with a friend
flying a magic carpet
or riding an elephant
Sleep should be
a place of contentment
The mind at rest
body free and light
spirit drifts to where
all is good and right
In a flash that face
could appear
The one that harms
causes terror
That it that deserves
no mention
The one that my
tension originated
with the vileness
of his being
In those moments
did so maltreat
I may wake from
dead sleep on my feet
Took what to only
belonged to me
my blissful slumber
now without sweet dreams
song of my heart in twain
never to be joined
My heart hostage
and injuriously awake
Peaceful eyes waiting
to soon be as afore
Broken, wondering if
I will achieve sleep
the way others win awards
If in my sleep
that piece of dung
appears
slumber is deferred
to my fears
In that flash
I feel a racing heart,
viscous breath,
shuddering body
stiffens me wide-awake.
I touch the headboard,
the wall,
my pillow
to feel where I am.
I say “I am in my house,
he is not in my bed,
he has never been here.
I am safe and
without dread”
It is then I realize
the wrapping arms
of the most lovely man
are ever there
I settle consciously
to be calm
without dread
left to reconcile
how long- a season,
how many moons
will slumber
escape my being
For as I wake
the monster
does not preside
In His Dark heart
I drove a stake
With daylight
I push it aside
Though sleep
will come
that very
next night! ?
I would like
to slumber
simple sleep
without dreams
or of beauty, lifes frills
To be as I was before
Happy to sleep
with each moon
Peaceful heart
without disparity
I wish sleep
to meet me
with pleasured dreams
poem by Sandra Dodd
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Good Night
1.
Love, thou hast wandered far and wide,
But here thy wanderings cease;
Thy long- sought mate is by thy side,
And thou canst sleep in peace.
2.
Night moans outside our window- pane,
And weeps from dripping eaves;
The air is thick with falling rain
Upon dead autumn leaves.
3.
The winds of winter rave and chafe
Around thy tranquil nest,
But I am here, and thou art safe —
Thy very soul may rest.
4.
The wild surf- thunder swells and falls
Upon the seething beach —
Thy world within thy chamber- walls
Nor winds nor waves can reach.
5.
Sleep, fired eyes! Sleep well, dear heart,
That ached so long for me!
No sudden hand shall tear apart
These arms that shelter thee
6.
Sleep well, though late- found joys be brief,
And bought with tears and pain;
Shut out the memory of thy grief —
Thou didst not grieve in vain.
7.
Think of our treasure, kept in store,
And not the price it cost —
Those precious years, that come no more,
Which thou and I have lost.
8.
O, wasted years, that lie behind
Hush — what is past is past.
Enough that we have lived to find
What life is worth at last.
9.
Though Fate has robbed us of so much,
We know not what we miss;
All ills are recompensed in such
A priceless good as this.
10.
Sleep,dear! The hours are passing on —
The midnight bells have tolled;
Think not how much of life is gone,
But how much more we hold.
11.
Yes, more — as wise men reckon life —
Though no wise man can tell
How soon, for husband and for wife,
The stroke of doom will knell.
12.
No echo of that solemn chime
Break through thy perfect peace!
No forecast of that awful time
When time for us will cease:
13.
When happier worlds shall shine in space,
For other eyes to see,
And none have any more a place
For thy true love and thee.
14.
Be blind to all, and deaf, and dumb,
In thy quick heart's despite!
Content thee — though the end must come,
It will not come to- night.
15.
This night let never thought of ill
Disturb thy slumber deep;
To- morrow I shall have thee still,
So thou canst safely sleep:
16.
Reprieved from that appalling fear,
As from thy long regret —
Be our last parting far or near,
We have not reached it yet.
17.
Thy head lies pillowed on my breast —
My cheek upon thy brow —
Dear love, good night! Thou art at rest
From Past and Future now.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Maria's Lullaby
An extract from a poem written for my grandchildren to Brahms Lullaby
Sleep; little mice sleep
Mother will watch over you
Shut your eyes and don't peek
Tomorrow the skies will be blue
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
No harm will come whilst I am here
The sun has gone down by the peak
When the day dawns it will appear
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Your father is watching the house
That no owl or cat dares to seek
Harm to creatures or mouse
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Tomorrow you run and play
Now is not time to speak
When you awake a new day
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Rest now for your own sake
Shut your eyes now be asleep
I will be here when you awake
Sleep; little mice sleep.
poem by Thomas Golding
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To The Head-Ach
THOU tyrant of the ling'ring hour!
Ah, why with me delight to rest?
Hence far away, tormenting pow'r
Unwelcome guest!
With thee, sad visitant! I prove
The long, the melancholy day;
Ah! foe to peace! from me remove,
Thy dreaded sway.
Oft when I'd court ideal themes,
'Tis then thy leaden wings o'erspread
That seat of wild, fantastic dreams,
My weary head.
And when in Fancy's fiery car,
With her and with the muse I'd fly;
To realms beyond the morning-star,
The earth and sky;
Not long in these illusions blest,
Through fairy-palaces I roam;
Thy wand recals, unwelcome guest!
My visions home.
Ah, foe to peace! When thou art nigh,
Farewell the dew-balm of repose;
Then slumber's fled—the languid eye
Forgets to close.
I ne'er my midnight vigils keep,
To ponder by the taper's light;
Nor waste in downy arms of sleep,
The morning bright.
'Tis mine to rove the hill, the dale,
To wander through embow'ring trees;
The soul of freshness to inhale,
The mountain-breeze.
Then, tyrant of the ling'ring hour,
Ah! why with me delight to rest?
Hence far away, tormenting pow'r,
Unwelcome guest!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Good-Night
THE lark is silent in his nest,
The breeze is sighing in its flight,
Sleep, Love, and peaceful be thy rest.
Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.
Sweet dreams' attend thee in thy sleep,
To soothe thy rest till morning's light,
And angels round thee vigil keep.
Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.
Sleep well, my love, on night's dark breast,
And ease thy soul with slumber bright;
Be joy but thine and I am blest.
Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Nice to Be Winter
It must be nice to follow fall
Rest, my babies, rest
To blanch the landscape, trees and all
Rest, my babies, rest
To still the flies and honey bees
Blowing snow in swirling wreathes
And comb the pines with a frozen breeze
To ice the waves which rule the seas
It must be nice to be winter
It must be nice to sew for spring
Sleep, my babies, sleep
Soon to melt from everything
Sleep, my babies, sleep
To brighten night with a moonlit glare
The might of slumber’s quiet fare
And whistle whispers in the air
To cure the world of summer’s ware
It must be nice to be winter
poem by Kimberley Myles
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The singing in god's acre
Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,
Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.
Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,
As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,
And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;
And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong
The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
He that guardeth His flock the best
Hath folded them to His loving breast;
So sleep ye now, and take your rest,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,
And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;
So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,
God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
poem by Eugene Field
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Work Overtime Turbo Drive
long overdue
a well earned rest
about to sleep,
sweet sweet well earned sleep,
my eyes can hardly peep
about to hit my pillow,
think instant sleep sublime,
will caress my soul be bedtime mine
I will heartily wallow,
in gentle sleeps slumber pastime,
this rest of tired mind be chime downtime fine
long long past,
sleep sleep past early dawn time,
long overdue this hard nightime earned recline
peacetime nest so welcomed
this rest among clime blessed
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Deserted Sidewalks
As I walk along the roads in dead of night,
I see nothing and no one, save deserted sidewalks,
Where people used to laugh and talk
And play and walk, in times of day.
But now in times of night where I walk alone,
Save with my loyal trusted companion,
Who asks nothing more than to be with me,
And to smell the scents, that abound at night.
Far different from the smells that abound in day.
The night is silent, save for the slight swish of our clothing,
And the faint tinkle of our jewellery,
And these sounds are borne along on the slight night breeze,
Peculiar only to this time, and this dimension.
This time is ours, a freedom borne of space,
And the silent parked cars, that tell the tale,
Of others not so far away, that slumber now,
As we awake, and come alive to run with Energies,
That only we can see and hear.
For when daylight comes around once more,
And all those weary travellers return again,
To struggles only they can tell of,
But won't, for they believe this is their fate,
And silently, with faces straight as pokers,
Trudge their weary way through life, as it is to them.
But you and I, we know different, for we are snug,
In the arms of an Energy and a space,
That they as yet cannot access.
So we sleep, the sleep of inner knowledge, and wait once more,
For the circle to turn again, when we will walk the sidewalks,
So deserted, not to us, for we see what the other eye does not,
And the other ear cannot hear.
So we walk deserted sidewalks on our own for many a year.
And wait for the awakening of souls,
Who as yet know not they sleep.
And they slumber still.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Student's Serenade
I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away.
But I oped my eyes at last,
And I heard a muffled sound;
'Twas the night-breeze, come to say
That the snow was on the ground.
Then I knew that there was rest
On the mountain's bosom free;
So I left my fevered couch,
And I flew to waken thee!
I have flown to waken thee
For, if thou wilt not arise,
Then my soul can drink no peace
From these holy moonlight skies.
And, this waste of virgin snow
To my sight will not be fair,
Unless thou wilt smiling come,
Love, to wander with me there.
Then, awake! Maria, wake!
For, if thou couldst only know
How the quiet moonlight sleeps
On this wilderness of snow,
And the groves of ancient trees,
In their snowy garb arrayed,
Till they stretch into the gloom
Of the distant valley's shade;
I know thou wouldst rejoice
To inhale this bracing air;
Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep
To behold a scene so fair.
O'er these wintry wilds, alone,
Thou wouldst joy to wander free;
And it will not please thee less,
Though that bliss be shared with me.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Tired Worker
O whisper, O my soul! The afternoon
Is waning into evening, whisper soft!
Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon
From out its misty veil will swing aloft!
Be patient, weary body, soon the night
Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet,
And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite
To rest thy tired hands and aching feet.
The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine;
Come tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast.
But what steals out the gray clouds like red wine?
O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest
Weary my veins, my brain, my life! Have pity!
No! Once again the harsh, the ugly city.
poem by Claude McKay
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Taps
Day is done,
gone the sun,
From the hills,
from the lake,
From the sky.
All is well,
safely rest,
God is nigh.
Go to sleep,
peaceful sleep,
May the soldier
or sailor,
God keep.
On the land
or the deep,
Safe in sleep.
Love, good night,
Must thou go,
When the day,
And the night
Need thee so?
All is well.
Speedeth all
To their rest.
Fades the light;
And afar
Goeth day,
And the stars
Shineth bright,
Fare thee well;
Day has gone,
Night is on.
Thanks and praise,
For our days,
'Neath the sun,
'Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go,
This we know,
God is nigh.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Sad Mother
Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.
Sleep, sleep, and in the night
may your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
or the silken fleece of lambs.
May my flesh slumber in you,
my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close
and my heart sleep.
poem by Gabriela Mistral
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Sappho's Song
O cruel Love, on thee I lay
My curse, which shall strike blind the day ;
Never may sleep with velvet hand
Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ;
Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears ;
Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ;
Thy play to wear out weary times,
Fantastic passions, vows, and rimes ;
Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall,
Such as when you Phao call ;
The bed thou liest on be despair,
Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care ;
Hope, like thy fool, at thy bed's head,
Mock thee, till madness strike thee dead,
As, Phao, thou dost me with thy proud eyes ;
In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies.
Notions Abound
So swift the evening’s descended,
Grey skies turn to black.
Once more the long day has ended,
My head hit’s the sack
Waves of fatigue overwhelm me,
Eyelids close and stay,
Calmness is making me drowsy,
Soft thoughts start to play.
But sleep’s far off in the distance,
Dreams are not to be.
Night gives no kind of assistance,
Slumber seems to flee.
The brain is over attentive,
Thoughts spinning around.
My mind is now so inventive,
That notions abound.
Some more early nights are needed,
For I’m overtired.
It’s something I should have heeded,
Late hours have backfired.
There’s too much burning of candles,
At both ends it seems.
Ones life, one badly mishandles,
Heading to extremes.
Oh, for a rest from counting sheep.
Oh, for perfect bliss.
Oh, for such a slumberous deep,
Who’d not wish for this.
An answer to ones constant prayers.
Would be so divine.
To do away with all nightmares,
Knowing sleep is mine.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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