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 moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!вБ†вАФand lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be rightвБ†вАФ
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice dropвБ†вАФ
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfullyвБ†вАФso fearfullyвБ†вАФ
Above the closed and fringèd lid
вАЩNeath which thy slumbвАЩring soul lies hid
That oвАЩer 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 oвАЩer 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-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 God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the dim 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 unfoldвБ†вАФ
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingèd panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, oвАЩer the crested palls,
Of her grand family funeralsвБ†вАФ
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stoneвБ†вАФ
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She neвАЩer shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.