SLEEP.

If any man, with sleepless care oppressed,

On many a night had risen, and addressed

His hand to make him out of joy and moan

An image of sweet sleep in carven stone,

Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned,

He would have wrought her with a patient hand,

Not like her brother death, with massive limb

And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim,

But very fair, though fitful and afraid,

More sweet and slight than any mortal maid.

Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth

Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe

All fevers in, yet barbèd here and there

With many a hidden sting of restless care;

Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest,

Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest

Of noiseless doubt were there; so too her eyes

His light hand would have carved in cunning wise

Broad with all languor of the drowsy South,

Most beautiful, but held askance; her mouth

More soft and round than any rose half-spread,

Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread.

He would have made her with one marble foot,

Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put,

Bearing sweet medicine for all distress,

Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness;

The other held a little back for dread;

One slender moonpale hand held forth to shed

Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip

Into wide eyes; the other on her lip.

So in the watches of his sleepless care

The cunning artist would have wrought her fair;

Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid

Yet often coming, when we least have prayed.