Maurice Thompson (1844–1901)

AND thou that by the poppy bloom dost stand

Robed in the dusky garments of the south,

With slumber in thine eyes and on thy mouth,

Sandalled with silence, having in thy hand

A philter for Death and a sleep-bearing wand,

Bringest thou the immitigable fire and drouth?

No; for thy shadowy hair is full of balm,

Thy philter is delight, thy wand gives rest.

See, now I fold my hands upon my breast!

Come, touch me with thy cool and soothing palm,

Lull me to measureless sleep, ineffable calm,

And bear me to thy garden in the west,

Beyond whose ever-clouded confine lies

A sweet, illimitable paradise!