Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
II. Rest
Buona Notte
By Francis Thompson (1859–1907)
ARIEL to Miranda:—Hear
This good-night the sea-winds bear;
And let thine unacquainted ear
Take grief for their interpreter.
Good-night! I have risen so high        5
Into slumber’s rarity,
Not a dream can beat its feather
Through the unsustaining ether.
Let the sea-winds make avouch
How thunder summoned me to couch,        10
Tempest curtained me about
And turned the sun with his own hand out:
And though I toss upon my bed
My dream is not disquieted;
Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,        15
And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;
And I fell to sleep so suddenly
That my lips are moist yet—could’st thou see—
With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.
Thou canst not wipe them; for it was Death        20
Damped my lips that has dried my breath.
A little while—it is not long—
The salt shall dry on them like the song.
Now know’st thou that voice desolate,—
Mourning ruined joy’s estate,—        25
Reached thee through a closing gate.
‘Go’st thou to Plato?’ Ah, girl, no!
It is to Pluto that I go.

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