I lay me down before the rustic gate
That opens on the shadowed land of sleep;
I famish for its dews, and may not wait
To hear its rivers flowing, drowsy-deep.
I knock, O Sleep, the Comforter! Again
My weakness faints unto thy great caress;
The circling thought beats blindly through the brain
With dull persistency of barren pain,
And draws uncertain doubting and distress,
To prove that man unto himself is very weariness.

Upon these withered grasses is no rest;
Thy crimson-dotted mosses are denied.
I see thy wall in shining grapevines dressed,
But know that only on the further side
Droop low the purple clusters. Take me in!
I do not fear to trust myself to thee;
Waking and danger are of closer kin,
But what hast thou to do with grief or sin?
Imprisoned from myself, I wander free,
And no resplendent sun of noon grants such security.

I would not lie to-night so near the bars,
If to thy realm fair entrance I may find,
That through them I might see our mortal stars,
And hear the passing of our earthly wind.
Not even would I wish some gentle friend
To lean against them with a loving face;
For rest and life were never willed to blend;
And as I watched the day unto its end,
So would I sleep the night without a trace,
Not only of day's grievousness, but even of its grace.

Spread not my couch within thy garden beds,
Where fairy forms from out the blossoms glance,
And catch the yellow moonlight on their heads,
To shift it swiftly in the swaying dance;
Nor wrap my limbs in thine enchanted cloak
Beneath the tree whose hollow shadows teem
With changing faces of fantastic folk,
And dim, dissolving shapes, — thy wizard oak
Whose every leaf conceals a fabled dream,
Whose dipping boughs disturb thy hushed and holy stream.

But take me to thy kingdom's very heart,
O solemn Sleep, with thee alone to dwell.
In deepest grotto hide me, far apart
From tone or touch, and guard mine eyelids well.
Yea, charm the weary senses deaf and blind,
And let me there lie face to face with thee.
So shall the morning cleave the clouds to find
Thy fragrance clinging to my waking mind;
But what thy lips did whisper unto me
I'll bear too fine for consciousness, too deep for memory.

Then call my footsteps in, O silent warden,
For even as I plead, night waxes late.
Call me to rest within thy holy garden,
And lift the latches of the rustic gate.
Others have won where I may not avail,
Childhood and age by countless millions pass;
Yea, guilty feet tread on where mine must fail,
For thou art kind as death. The faces pale
Of myriad sleepers gleam in thy sweet grass,
And only I am left without to weep and cry, Alas!

Yet thou wilt take me in with all the rest,
And walk among us in thine angelhood;
And we shall wake, and know we have been blessed,
If unaware, and that thy presence stood
In mercy by each weary son of earth,
To make us spirit sons of God once more.
With plenty wilt thou satisfy the dearth,
With strength the weakness, and another birth
Shall each white dawn unto our souls restore, —
The gate by which we leave thy land, a new life's open door.