s 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 gle