Dear charmer, Sleep ! How lovely art thou when
We have thee not, and long for thine embrace ;
And, when thou comest, how dost thou efface
All consciousness e’en of thyself, and then
In blissful self-abandonment no pen
Can tell of, where no man our way may trace,
In thy pure arms, in some mysterious place,
Oblivious I wait the hour when men,
And I among them, must their work pursue.
And here thou art not, yet thy gift remains
Of power to think and serve ; and while the dew
Is on the grass, men raise their grateful strains
To Him who safe the waking soul doth keep,
To Him who “giveth His beloved sleep.”
(Gerard Addington D Arcy Irvine)
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