TO SLEEP

By Helen Gray Cone

All slumb'rous images that be, combined,

To this white couch and cool shall woo thee, Sleep!

First will I think on fields of grasses deep

In gray-green flower, o'er which the transient wind

Runs like a smile; and next will call to mind

How glistening poplar-tops, when breezes creep

Among their leaves, a tender motion keep,

Stroking the sky, like touch of lovers kind.

Ah, having felt thy calm kiss on mine eyes,

All night inspiring thy divine pure breath,

I shall awake as into godhood born,

And with a fresh, undaunted soul arise,

Clear as the blue convolvulus at morn.

— Dear bedfellow, deals thus thy brother, Death?