Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never
cease? Unholy activity consumes the angel-visit of the Night. Will the
time never come when Love’s hidden sacrifice shall burn eternally? To the
Light a season was set; but everlasting and boundless is the dominion of
the Night. Endless is the duration of sleep. Holy Sleep, gladden not too
seldom in this earthly day-labour, the devoted servant of the Night. Fools
alone mistake thee, knowing nought of sleep but the shadow which, in the
gloaming of the real night, thou pitifully castest over us. They feel thee
not in the golden flood of the grapes, in the magic oil of the almond
tree, and the brown juice of the poppy. They know not that it is thou who
hauntest the bosom of the tender maiden, and makest a heaven of her lap;
never suspect it is thou, the portress of heaven, that steppest to meet
them out of ancient stories, bearing the key to the dwellings of the
blessed, silent messenger of secrets infinite.