 SLEEP BOOK This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Clarica. SLEEP BOOK Some of the Poetry of Slumber, collected by Leo N. Louise Everett. To Ethel Dufres Houston, who has brought the joy and beauty of dream into so many lives. 1. Peace, peace, thou over-anxious, foolish heart. Rest ever-seeking soul, calm mad desires, quiet wild dreams. This is the time of sleep. Hold her more close than life itself. Forget all the excitements of the day. Forget all problems and discomforts. Let the night take you unto herself, her blessed self. Peace, peace, thou over-anxious, foolish heart. Rest ever-seeking soul, calm mad desires, quiet wild dreams. This is the time of sleep. Leo N. Louise Everett. 2. Sleep, softly breathing God. His downy wing was fluttering now. 3. And more to lull him in his slumber soft, a trickling stream from high rock tumbling down and ever-drizzling rain upon the loft, mixed with a murmuring wind, much like the sound of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon. No other noise, nor people's troubleous cries, as still or want to annoy the walled town, might there be heard. But careless quiet lies wrapped in eternal silence, far from enemies. Edmund Spencer. 4. The water's murmuring, with such cohort as they keep, entice the dewy-feathered sleep. Il Pincero so, John Milton. 5. He spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs be not seen. Newts and blindworms do no wrong, come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody, sing our sweet lullaby. 6. La, la, la, la, lullaby. La, la, la, la, lullaby. Never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh, so good-night with lullaby. 6. Sleep, silence, child, sweet father of soft rest, prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings, in different host to shepherds and to kings, soul-comforter of minds with grief oppressed, low by thy charming rod all breathing things lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possessed. 7. Come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, lock me in delight a while. Let some pleasing dreams beguile all my fancies, that from thence I may feel an influence, all my powers of care bereaving. Though but a shadow, but a sliding, let me know some little joy. We that suffer long annoy are contented with a thought through an idle fancy rot. Oh, let my joys have some abiding. 8. But still, let silence through night-watches keep, that sacred peace may in assurance reign, and timely sleep, when it is time to sleep, may pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plane. The wiles and hundred little winged loves, like diverse feathered doves, shall fly and flutter round about your bed. 9. Care-charming sleep, thou easer of all woes, brother to death, sweetly thy self-dispose on this afflicted prince, fall like a cloud in gentle showers, give nothing that is loud or painful to his slumbers. Easy, sweet, and as a purling stream, thou son of night, pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain, into this prince gently. Oh, gently, slide and kiss him into slumbers like a bride. John Fletcher. 10. God hath set labour and rest, and day and night, to men successive, and the timely duo of sleep, now falling with soft, slumbrous weight, inclines our eyelids. John Milton. 11. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast, would I were sleep and peace so sweet to rest, William Shakespeare. The innocent's sleep, sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, to the death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast. William Shakespeare. 12. Come sleep, oh sleep, the certain knot of peace, the baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, the poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, the indifferent judge between the high and low. 13. Close thine eyes and sleep secure, thy soul is safe, thy body sure, he that guards thee, he that keeps, never slumbers, never sleeps. Quiet conscience in the breast has only peace, has only rest. The wisest and the mirth of kings are out of tune unless she sings. Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure. No sleep so sweet is thine, no rest so sure. Charles I, King of England. 14. Oh Brahma, garden's sleep, the merry lambs and the complacent kind, the flies below the leaves and the young mice in the tree-roots, and all the sacred flocks of red flamingo, and my love Vijaya, and may no restless Faye, with fidget finger, trouble his sleeping, give him dreams of me. 15. Solemnly, mournfully, dealing its dole, the curfew bell is beginning to toll. Cover the embers and put out the light. Toil comes with morning and rest with the night. Dark grow the windows and quenched is the fire. Sound fades into silence, all footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, no sound in the hall, sleep and oblivion, rain over all. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 16. Well me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound seems from some faint Aeolian harp string caught. Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought, as Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound, the hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 17. Our life is twofold, sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things misnamed, death and existence. Sleep hath its own world, and a wide dream of wild reality. And dreams in their development have breath and tears and tortures, and the touch of joy. They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. They take a weight from off our waking toils. They do divide our being, they become a portion of ourselves as of our time, and look like heralds of eternity. 18. O gentle sleep, do they belong to thee these twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love to sit in meekness, like the brooding dove, a captive never wishing to be free. William Wadsworth. 19. O soft embalmer of the still midnight, shutting with careful fingers and benign our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, and shaded in forgetfulness divine. O soothest sleep, if it so pleases thee, close in the 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 past 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 oiled wards, and seal the hushed casket of my soul. John Keats. 20. Sleep, that gift what life denies, shadowy bounties in supreme bring the dearest face that flies following darkness like a dream. Andrew Lang. 21. I have a lady as dear to me as the westward wind and shining sea, as breath of spring to the verdant lee, as lovers' songs and young children's glee. Swiftly I pace through the hours of light, finding no joy in the sunshine bright. Waiting till moon and far stars are white, awaiting the hours of silent night. Swiftly I fly from the day's alarms, two sudden desires, false joys and harms. Swiftly I fly to my loved one's charms, praying the clasp of her perfect arms. Her eyes are wonderful, dark and deep, her raven tresses a midnight steep. But ah, she is hard to hold and keep, my lovely lady, my lady sleep. Leo and Louise Everett. 22. Visit her, gentle sleep, with wings of healing, and may this storm be but a mountain berth. May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, silent as though they watched the sleeping earth. With light heart may she rise, gay fancy, cheerful eyes, joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice. 23. Sleep, king of gods and men, come to my call again. Swift, overfield and fen, mountain and deep. Come, bid the waves be still. Sleep, streams on height and hill, beasts, birds and snakes, thy will conquereth. Sleep, come on thy golden wings, come ear the swallow sings, lulling all living things, fly they or creep. Come with thy leaden wand, come with thy kindly hand, soothing on sea or land mortals that weep. Come from the cloudy west, soft over brain and breast, bidding the dragon rest, come to me, sleep. Andrew Lang. 24. Sleep, death without dying, living without life. Edwin Arnold. 25. She sleeps. Her breathings are not heard in palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred, that he upon her charmed heart. She sleeps. On either hand upswells the gold-fringed pillow lightly pressed. She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells a perfect form in perfect rest. Alfred Tennyson. 26. The hours are passing slow. I hear their weary tread clang from the tower and go back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep, death's twin brother, dread! Why dost thou scorn me so? The wind's voice overhead, long wakeful here I know, and music from the steep where waters fall and flow. Wilt thou not hear me sleep? All sounds that might bestow rest on the fevered bed. All slumbrous sounds, and low, are mingled here and wed, and bring no drowsy head. Shy dreams flit to and fro, with shadowy hair to spread, with wistful eyes that glow and silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me, no? Wilt thou not hear me, sleep? What cause hest them to show of sacrifice unspeared? Of all thy slaves below I most have labored with service sung and said? Have cold such buds as blow, soft poppies white and red, where thy still gardens grow, and leth's waters weep? Why then art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, sleep? Wilt's ear the dark be shred by golden shafts, ear low and long the shadows creep, lord of the wand of lead, soft-footed is the snow, wilt thou not hear me, sleep? Andrew Lang 27 I have loved wind and light in the bright sea, but holy and most secret night, not as I love and have loved thee. God, like all highest things, hides light and shade, and in the night his visitings to sleep and dreams are clearlyest made. Arthur Simons 28 The peace of a wandering sky, silence, only the cry of the crickets suddenly still, a bee on the windowsill, a bird's wing rushing and soft, three flails that tramp in the loft, summer murmuring some sweet slumberous thing half asleep. Arthur Simons 29 Only a little holiday of sleep, soft sleep, sweet sleep, a little soothing psalm of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm, a little sleep it matters not how deep, a little falling feather from thy wing, merciful lord, is it so great a thing? Richard Ligallien 30 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by one after one, the sound of rain and bees murmuring, the fall of rivers, winds and seas, smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky, I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie sleepless. Come, blessed barrier between day and day, dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health, William Wordsworth. 31 Sleep is a reconciling, arrest that peace begets, does not the sun rise smiling when fair at eve he sets? Anonymous. 32 The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, the weary winds are silent or the moon is in the deep, some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows, whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep. Percy Bish Shelley 33 We lay stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound of far-off torrents, charming the still night, two tired limbs and over-busy thoughts inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 34 There is sweet music here that softer falls, then petals from blown roses on the grass or night-dos on still waters between walls of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass, music that gently are on the spirit lies, then tired eyelids upon tired eyes, music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, and through the mass the ivies creep, and in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, and from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 35 I went into the deserts of dim sleep, that world which, like an unknown wilderness, bounds this with its recesses wide and deep. Percy Bish Shelley 36 Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life, come back to me, come back to me, hold out your wonderful wide arms and gather me against your breast. I lay above your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow as waters that obey the moon, and low, rest infinite, was mine and calm. My soul is sick for want of you. Oh, Morpheus, heart of my weary heart, come back to me. Leo and Louise Everett 37 Lips, parted in slumber, once the regular breath of innocent dreams arose. Percy Bish Shelley 38 Oh, Morpheus, my heart, come back to me, come back to me, come back to me, a late lark twitters in the quiet skies, and from the west where the sun, his day's work ended, lingers in content, there falls on the old grey city an influenced luminous sensorine, a shining peace. The smoke ascends in a rosy and golden haze, the spires shine and are changed. In the valley shadows rise, the lark sings on. The sun, closing his benediction, sinks, and the darkening air thrills with a sense of the triumphing night, night with her train of stars and her great gift of sleep. William Ernest Henley 39 Oh, sleep, it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole, to merry queen the praise be given, she sent the gentle sleep from heaven that slid into my soul. Samuel T. Colleridge 40 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 leanness 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 me, for enlivening all the cheerful eyes that glance so brightly at the new sunrise. John Keats 41 My sleep had been embroidered with dim dreams. My soul had been a lawn, besprinkled o'er with flowers, and stirring shades of baffled beams. John Keats 42 Sleep is a blessed thing. All my long life I have known this, its value infinite to man, its symbol of the perfect peace that marks eternity, its marvellous relief from all the vanities and wounds, the little battles and unrest of soul that we call life. Sleep is a blessed thing, doubly it has been taught me. All the time I cannot have you, all the heart-sick days of utter yearning, of eternal ache, of longing, longing for the sight of you, fade and dissolve at night in your mind, at least in dreams, at least in blessed dreams. Leo and Louise Everett 43 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, in sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, until the poppy warmth of sleep oppressed her soothed limbs and soul fatigued away, known, like a thought, until the morrow day, blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain, clasped like a missile where sword-panems prey, blended alike from sunshine and from rain, as though a rose could shut and be a bud again. John Keats 44 O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, that brutished or the troubled sea of the mind, till it is hushed and smooth. O unconfined restraint, imprisoned liberty, great key to golden palaces, strange minstrel sea, fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, echoing grottoes full of tumbling waves and moonlight, eye to all the mazy world of silvery enchantment, who, up-furled beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, but renovates and lives. John Keats 45 A sleep full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing. John Keats 46 Now is the blackest hour of the long night, the soul of midnight. Now the pallid stars shine in the highest silver, and the wind that creepeth chill across the sleeping world holdeth no hint of mourning. I look out into the glory of the night with tired, wide, sleepless eyes and think of you. There is the hush of some great spirit o'er the earth. Here, in the silence earth and sky are met and merged into infinity. O God of all, thou who beholdest destiny as simple, thou who understandest life from birth to rebirth, who knows all our souls, grant her thy perfect benediction. Rest Leo and Louise Everett 50 End of Sleepbook, Some of the Poetry of Slumber, Collected by Leo and Louise Everett