John Keats (1795–1821)

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!

Shutting with careful fingers and benign

Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine,

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,

Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws

Around my head its lulling charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords

Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiléd wards,

And seal the hushéd casket of my soul.