| O soft embalmer of the still midnight
|
| Shutting, with careful fingers and benign
|
| Our gloom‑pleas'd eyes, embower’d 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 bed its lulling charities
|
| Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
|
| Upon my pillow, breeding many woes
|
| Save me, save me from curious conscience, that still lords
|
| Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
|
| Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards
|
| And seal the hushèd casket of my Soul |