Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette,
Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wear
Nettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair;
For thou ’rt the veriest elf that ever yet
Made weary mortals sigh and toss and fret!
Thou dost float softly through the drowsy air
Hovering as if to kiss my lips and share
My restless pillow; but ere I can set
My arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech,
Save one swift, mocking smile thou ’rt out of reach!
Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to thee
As sister is to sister, shalt draw near
With such soft lullabies for my dull ear,
That neither life nor love shall waken me!
IN KING’S CHAPEL
(BOSTON, November 3, 1878)
O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place,
Where, though the tides of time resistless flow,
And the long generations come and go,
Thou still abidest! In this holy space
The very airs are hushed before Thy face,
And wait in reverent calm, as voices low
Blend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow,
And the gray twilight stealeth on apace.
Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls;
The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle;
And there are rustlings as of angels’ wings
While from the choir the heavenly music falls!
Well may we bow in grateful praise the while—
In the King’s Chapel reigns the King of Kings!