Sleep and Poetry

      “As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete

      Was unto me, but why that I ne might

      Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight

      [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese

      Than I, for I n’ad sicknesse nor disese.”

       Chaucer

      What is more gentle than a wind in summer?

      What is more soothing than the pretty hummer

      That stays one moment in an open flower,

      And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?

      What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing

      In a green island, far from all men’s knowing?

      More healthful than the leafiness of dales?

      More secret than a nest of nightingales?

      More serene than Cordelia’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.

      But what is higher beyond thought than thee?

      Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?

      More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,

      Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?

      What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

      It has a glory, and nought else can share it:

      The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

      Chacing away all worldliness and folly;

      Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

      Or the low rumblings earth’s regions under;

      And sometimes like a gentle whispering

      Of all the secrets of some wond’rous thing

      That breathes about us in the vacant air;

      So that we look around with prying stare,

      Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,

      And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;

      To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,

      That is to crown our name when life is ended.

      Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,

      And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!

      Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,

      And die away in ardent mutterings.

      No one who once the glorious sun has seen,

      And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

      For his great Maker’s presence, but must know

      What ’tis I mean, and feel his being glow:

      Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,

      By telling what he sees from native merit.

      O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen

      That am not yet a glorious denizen

      Of thy wide heaven – Should I rather kneel

      Upon some mountain-top until I feel

      A glowing splendour round about me hung,

      And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

      O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen

      That am not yet a glorious denizen

      Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,

      Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,

      Smoothed for intoxication by the breath

      Of flowering bays, that I may die a death

      Of luxury, and my young spirit follow

      The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo

      Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

      The o’erwhelming sweets, ’twill bring to me the fair

      Visions of all places: a bowery nook

      Will be elysium – an eternal book

      Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

      About the leaves, and flowers – about the playing

      Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

      Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;

      And many a verse from so strange influence

      That we must ever wonder how, and whence

      It came. Also imaginings will hover

      Round my fire-side, and haply there discover

      Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander

      In happy silence, like the clear meander

      Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

      Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

      Or a green hill o’erspread with chequered dress

      Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,

      Write on my tablets all that was permitted,

      All that was for our human senses fitted.

      Then the events of this wide world I’d seize

      Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze

      Till at its shoulders it should proudly see

      Wings to find out an immortality.

      Stop and consider! life is but a day;

      A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way

      From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep

      While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

      Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

      Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;

      The reading of an ever-changing tale;

      The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;

      A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

      A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,

      Riding