David Gray (1838–1861)

O PRECIOUS morphia! I sanctify

The soothing power that in a painless swoon

Laps my weak limbs, giving me strength to lie,

Till sacred dawn increases until noon:

Then when, from his meridional height,

The sun devolves, and cooling breezes wake,

It is a comfort and divine delight

The weary bed exhausted to forsake,

And bathe my temples in the blessed air.

But when day wanes and the wind-moaning night

Deepens to darkness, then thy virtue rare,

O dream-creative liquid! brings delight,

Thy silver drops diffusive kindly steep

The senses in the golden juice of sleep.