Sunday Verse
To Sleep
by John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered 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 passèd day will shine Upon my pillow, bereeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards, And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.