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. This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me 5 A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above Now on the water vexed with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no;[A] Hence am I[1] cross and peevish as a child: 10 Am[2] pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled. VARIANTS: [1] 1807. ... I am ... 1815. The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807. [2] 1807. And ... 1815. The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807. FOOTNOTES: [A] Compare--"Et c'est encore ce qui me fâche, de n'etre pas même en droit de ... fâcher."--Rousseau, _La Nouvelle Héloïse_. "Vixque tenet lacrymas; quia nil lacrymabile cernit." Ovid, _Metamorphoses_, lib. ii. l. 796.--ED. TO SLEEP Composed 1806.--Published 1807 One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED. Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,[1] When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep! Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 5 In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, 10 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most! VARIANTS: [1] 1837. The very sweetest words that fancy frames 1807. TO SLEEP Composed 1806.--Published 1807 Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED. 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[1] 5 Sleepless[A]! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10 So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between[2] day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!