SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, 
   Spirit of 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! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 
   Star-inwrought! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand-- 
   Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 
   I sigh'd for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 
   I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
   'Wouldst thou me?' 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 
'Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me?'--And I replied, 
   'No, not thee!' 

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, beloved Night-- 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
   Come soon, soon! 

Added: May 2 2005 | Viewed: 457 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem: Night

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