C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
To Sleep
By Statius (c. 45–c. 96 A.D.)
H
O young and very gentle god of Sleep?
Still are the trees, the fields, the woodland ways,
Drowsy the nodding tree-tops. Even the deep
Roar of the rushing river muffled seems,
While, shorn of all his violence, the sea
Leans on the land’s broad bosom, sunk in dreams.
Yet now, seven times, the moon hath looked on me
Languishing; and the stars of eve and morn
Their lamps relit; while heedless of my pain
Aurora passes in half-pitying scorn,
Nor lays her cooling touch upon my brain.
Were I as Argus, and my thousand eyes
Alternate veiled, nor ever all awake,
’Twere well. But now the heart within me dies.
Is there not somewhere one who, for the sake
Of girlish arms all night about him thrown,
Would fain repel thee. Sleep? Oh, leave him so
And visit me! Yet shed not all thy down
On these poor lids, which cannot hope to know
The dreamless rest of the untroubled clown;
But lean, and touch me with thy wand, and go!