'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile, For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free at last from mortal care or guile, To live, as only in the angels' sight, In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin!
So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackney'd phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising-- The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!"
Suppose the little cowslip Should hang its golden cup, And say: "I'm such a tiny flower, I'd better not grow up;" How many a weary traveler Would miss its fragrant smell! How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell!
Suppose the glistening dew-drops Upon the grass should say: "What can a little dew-drop do? I'd better roll away;" The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.
Suppose the little breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveler on his way; Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were talking so?
How many deeds of kindness A little child may do, Although it has so little strength, And little wisdom, too! It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by his love.
There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says: Of polished ivory one, of horn the other; But I, besides these gates, to blessed Sleep Three other gates have found which thus I count: First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight, When labor ceases, every sound is hush'd, And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne. Pale-visaged Specters round this gate keep watch, And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond these Rest, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness, Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope, Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm Composure And daring Enterprise and Self-reliance.
The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel, With odorous trailing hop, and poppy-stalks; The shadowy gateway paved with poppy-heads, And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick Fancy Haggard and trembling, and Delirium wild, And Impotence with drunken glistening eye, And Idiocy, and, in the background, Death.