I thought I'd give you a break from my poetry with the poetry of a professional. Here, John Keats professes his undying love for that fickle mistress, Sleep. Unlike William Wordsworth who immortalized insomnia in his poem, "To Sleep", Keats looks forward to the night of rest he knows is coming.
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 passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,— Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul. Something that both Keats and Wordsworth have in common in these two poems is the personification of sleep. Keats calls sleep an embalmer with careful fingers that doles out forgetfulness. She saves him from his troubles. Wordsworth tries to cajole Sleep to visit him and save him from his insomnia. Sir Philip Sydney in his sonnet 39 also enjoins Sleep to visit him so that he (and Sleep) may see the beauty of Stella.
I had no idea that there were so many poems dedicated to one of my favorite pastimes. How lovely to read a love poem to Sleep. Please enjoy this picture of me at 2:30 AM on my Prometheus deadline.
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