Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/737

 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand— Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to her rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 'Wouldst thou me?' Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 'Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?'—And I replied, 'No, not thee!'

Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled. Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovèd Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!