Sleep.

SLEEP.

LIKE the dark mirror of some mountain lake
To woods and clouds, to stars and twilight flowers,
Art thou, O Sleep, to these our waking hours!
From all that passes in us when awake,
Some strange reflection thou dost ever take;
From all events and acts thy deeps have caught
The dim inverted images of thought
And feeling. But as winds will sometimes break
The stillness of the water, every gleam
Of beauty or of order is deranged,
And all the fairy picture wildly changed—
So the calm image of some happiest dream
Turns dark and dim, and with proportion lost,
Waves, endless, shapeless, wild, even when loved the most.