The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June

I stand beneath the mystic moon

(An opiate vapor, dewy, dim)

Exhales from out her golden rim

And, softly dripping, drop by drop

Upon the quiet mountain top

(Steals drowsily and musically)

Into the universal valley

The rosemary nods upon the grave

The lily lolls upon the wave

(Wrapping the fog about its breast)

The ruin molders into rest

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take

(And would not, for the world, awake)

And would not, for the world, awake

All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies

His casement open to the skies

(My lover with his destinies)

O, lover bright! can it be right

O, lady bright! can it be right

This window open to the night?

(The wanton airs, from the tree-top)

Laughingly through the lattice drop

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout

Flit through thy chamber in and out

(And wave the curtain canopy)

So fitfully, so fearfully

Above the closed and fringed lid

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid

That, o'er the floor and down the wall

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas

A wonder to these garden trees

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress

Strange, above all, thy length of tress

And this all this...

And this all this solemn silentness

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep

Which is enduring, so be deep

Heaven have her in its sacred keep

This chamber changed for one more holy

This bed for one more melancholy

I pray to Saturn that she may lie

For ever with unopened eye

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep

As it is lasting, so be deep

Soft may the worms about her creep

Far in the forest, dim and old

For her may some tall vault unfold

Some vault that oft has flung its black

And winged panels fluttering back

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls

Of her grand family funerals

Some sepulchre, remote, alone

Against whose portal she hath thrown

In childhood, many an idle stone

Some tomb from out whose sounding door

She ne'er shall force an echo more

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin

It was the dead who groaned within