Ode to Sleep
ON this my pensive
pillow, gentle
Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy
plumage drest:
Wipe with thy
wing these
eyes that wake to
weep,
And place thy crown of
poppies on my breast.
O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,
And sooth my throbbing
pulse with lenient hand;
This
tempest of my
boiling blood becalm!
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.
Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the
gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious
night,
I seek
sweet slumber, while that
virgin bloom,
For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.
Nor would the dawning
day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight and the blaze of
noon alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.
Thomas Warton (1728 - 1790)
English critic; Poet laureate from 1785
see Ode to Music