a's countenance?
More full of visions than a high romance?
What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
Wreather of poppy buds and weeping willows!
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

_John Keats_.

XLI.

My sleep had been embroidered with dim dreams,
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
With flowers, and stirring shades of baffled beams.

_John Keats_.

XLII.

Sleep is a blessed thing. All my long life
I have known this, its value infinite
To man, its symbol of the perfect peace
That marks eternity, its marvellous
Relief from all the vanities and wounds,
The little battles and unrest of soul
That we call life.
Sleep is a blessed thing,
Doubly it has been taught me. All the time
I cannot have you, all the heart-sick days
Of utter yearning, of eternal ache
Of longing, longing for the sight of you,
Fade and dissolve at night and you are mine,
At least in dreams, at least in blessed dreams.

_Leolyn Louise Everett_.

XLIII.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day,
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain,
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blended alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose could shut and be a bud again.

_John Keats_.

XLIV.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
'Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd
Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key
To golden palaces, strange ministrelsy,
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves
And moonlight, aye, to all the mazy world
Of silvery enchantment!--who, upfurl'd
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour
But renovates and lives?

_John Keats_.

XLV.

A sleep
Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing.

_John Keats_.

XLVI.