Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Frances SargentOsgood

273 To Sleep

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.

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother

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?

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing

With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;

I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,

Save that most true, most beautiful,—repose.

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;

Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.

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.

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!