NOCTURNE
The houseless wind has gone to rest
In some rude cavern-bed of ocean,
And Neptune smooths each foamy crest,
At Dian's will, with meek devotion;
The shepherd, gathering his sheep,
Has brought them safely to the fold,—
And in my arms my world I hold!
Sleep!
Forespent with hunting on the hill,
My truant, in the dusk returning,
Finds the lone heart, he left at will.
With the one worship burning.
The moonlight pales—the shade grows deep—
The nightingale doth silence break!
Ah, love, till first the lark shall wake,
Sleep!
No homeless wanderer art thou!
Here, pillowed safe, thy head is lying.
The nightingale! Ah, listen now!
What passion—death itself defying!
Peace! All the stars thy vigil keep.
And fragrant breathes each mystic flower
That blooms to-night in Dreamland bower:
Sleep!