C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Sleep
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
O
Borne inward into souls afar
Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this—
“He giveth his belovèd sleep.”
The hero’s heart to be unmoved,
The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch’s crown to light the brows?—
He giveth his belovèd sleep.
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.
He giveth his belovèd sleep.
Who have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth his belovèd sleep.
O men with wailing in your voices!
O delvèd gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth his belovèd sleep.
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth his belovèd sleep.
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say,—and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard,—
“He giveth his belovèd sleep.”
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth his belovèd sleep.
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one most loving of you all
Say, “Not a tear must o’er her fall!
He giveth his belovèd sleep.”