The Sleep
Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne in-ward in-to souls a-far,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this:
'He giveth his belovèd - sleep?'
What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?
He giveth his belovèd sleep.
What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to over-weep,
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth his belovèd - sleep.
'Sleep soft,' beloved! we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth his belovèd - sleep
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that oe'r it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth his belovèd- sleep.
And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall!'
'He giveth his belovèd sleep, sleep.'
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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