Lull 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;
        For I am weary, and am overwrought
        With too much toil, with too much care distraught,
        And with the iron crown of anguish crowned.
    Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek,
        O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released
        I breathe again uninterrupted breath!
    Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek
        Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast
        Whereof the greater mystery is death!


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Add Sleep to your library.

Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow library , or . . . Read the next poem; Snow-Flakes

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