Helen Gray Cone

To Sleep

  All slumb'rous images that be, combined,
  To this white couch and cool shall woo thee, Sleep!
  First will I think on fields of grasses deep
  In gray-green flower, o'er which the transient wind
  Runs like a smile; and next will call to mind
  How glistening poplar-tops, when breezes creep
  Among their leaves, a tender motion keep,
  Stroking the sky, like touch of lovers kind.

  Ah, having felt thy calm kiss on mine eyes,
  All night inspiring thy divine pure breath,
  I shall awake as into godhood born,
  And with a fresh, undaunted soul arise,
  Clear as the blue convolvulus at morn.
  —Dear bedfellow, deals thus thy brother, Death?