When midnight’s veil doth cloak the shrouded lands,
And owls cry out in ruined, ivy halls,
I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands,
And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.
Thou art no thief, but bring’st a peace so deep,
More fair than love, more true than daylight’s grace.
Each breath I take within thy house of sleep
Leaves dream-born roses blooming o’er my face.
Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave,
For by my flintlock, loaded, sharp, and keen,
I guard this rest more dearly than the grave,
And curse the soul who dares to come between.
So let the wind wail low, the night be steep—
For none shall wake me from my hallowed sleep.