TO SLEEP
When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves,
Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves—
Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep,
When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep;
When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings,
The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,—
Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,—o'er grown
By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn.
And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown—
Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound,
And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast—
The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest.
A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds,
Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads,
Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses
And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!