From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia




BUT come to me, O Sleep! I love thy spell,
Although thy waving mirror hath no power
To stay the visions of the midnight hour,
Or, like the certain shapes of day, compel
The forms that haunt the shade of memory’s cell
To stand before me. Come and bring thy dreams!
I love to see the dim and wavering gleams,
As journeying downward to thy mystic dell,
I stand beside thy deep and shadowy lake;
Still let me come and wander at thy will,
Through summer woods, by stream and sunny hill,
So of the lonely darkness I may make
A bright and peopled kingdom of my own,
Though the dream flies, or darkens, leaving me alone!


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