Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.
Percy Bysshe Shelley CLXXXVIII. To the NightS
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!
Star-inwrought;
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out:
Then wander o’er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
Come, long-sought!
I sigh’d for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn’d to his rest
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh’d for thee.
“Wouldst thou me?”
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur’d like a noontide bee,
“Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?”—And I replied,
“No, not thee!”
Soon, too soon;
Sleep will come when thou art fled:
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovèd Night—
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!