C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Henry King (1592–1669)

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,

Never to be disquieted.

My last “good-night!” Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must

Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room

My heart keeps empty in the tomb.

Stay for me there: I will not fail

To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay:

I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed

Desire can make or sorrow breed.

Each minute is a short degree,

And every hour a step towards thee;

At night, when I betake to rest,

Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.