Sir Thomas Browne (1605–1682)

THE NIGHT is come like to the day,—

Depart not thou, great God, away,

Let not my sins, black as the night,

Eclipse the lustre of thy light.

Keep still in my horizon; for to me

The sun makes not the day, but thee.

Thou, whose nature cannot sleep,

On my temples sentry keep;

Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes

Whose eyes are open while mine close.

Let no dreams my head infest

But such as Jacob’s temples blest.

While I do rest, my soul advance,

Make my sleep a holy trance,

That I may, my rest being wrought,

Awake into some holy thought,

And with as active vigor run

My course, as doth (be nimble sun,

Sleep is a death; O make me try

By sleeping, what it is to die:

And as gently lay my head

On my grave, as now my bed.

Howe’er I rest, great God, let me

Awake again at least with thee;

And thus assured, behold I lie

Secure, or to awake or die.

These are my drowsy days; in vain

I do now wake to sleep again:—

O come that hour, when I shall never

Sleep again, but wake forever.