| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 273. To Sleep |
| | | By Frances Sargent Osgood |
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| COME to me, angel of the weary hearted! | |
| Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, | |
| Unto thy realms unreal have departed, | |
| I too may rest—even I: ah! haste to me. | |
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| I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother | 5 |
| With his more welcome offering appear, | |
| For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, “Mother,” | |
| And who shall soothe them if I be not near? | |
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| Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing | |
| With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows; | 10 |
| I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing, | |
| Save that most true, most beautiful,—repose. | |
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| I have no heart to roam in realms of Faëry, | |
| To follow Fancy at her elfin call: | |
| I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary; | 15 |
| Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. | |
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| Paint not the Future to my fainting spirit, | |
| Though it were starred with glory like the skies; | |
| There is no gift immortals may inherit, | |
| That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes. | 20 |
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| And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never | |
| Be Memory’s downcast gaze unveiled by thee: | |
| Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever | |
| Of all that is, that has been, and will be! | |
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