Sonnets
SLEEP.
Love-cradling Night, lit by the lucent moon.
Most pitiful and mother-hearted Night!
Blest armistice in life's tumultuous fight,
Resolving discords to a spheral tune!
When tired with heat and strenuous toil of noon,
With ceaseless conflict betwixt might and right,
With ebb and flow of sorrow and delight.
Our panting hearts beneath their burdens swoon
To thee, O star-eyed comforter, we creep,
Earth's ill-used step-children to thee make moan.
As hiding in thy dark skirts' ample sweep;
—Poor debtors whose brief life is not their own;
For dunned by Death, to whom we owe its loan,
Give us, Night, the interest paid in sleep.
DEAD LOVE.
Mother of the unfortunate, mystic form,
Who calm, immutable, like oldest fate,
Sittest, where through the sombre swinging gate
Moans immemorial life's encircling storm.
