Now that we’re in the thick of the semester, we’re all lacking for a full night’s sleep. Here is what three of the English Romantics had to say about the subject of night.
The Sun Has Long Been Set
William Wordsworth
The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;
Theres a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoos sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would go parading
In London, and masquerading,”
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!
To Night
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
Swiftly walk oer the western wave,
Spirit of the Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,
Swift be thy flight!
II
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander oer city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand
Come, long-sought!
III
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.
IV
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noontide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?And I replied,
No, not thee!
V
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon
Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovd Night
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!
To Sleep
John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowerd 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 passd 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 oild wards,
And seal the hushd casket of my soul.
