To Sleep
by: John Keats (1795 - 1821)
O Soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
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Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone, The
Human Seasons, The
Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art
Fancy
When I Have Fears That I May Ceasa To Be
Where Be You Going, you Devon Maid?
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
To Autumn
Terror of Death, The
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