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s the snow, Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep! _Andrew Lang_. XXVII. I have loved wind and light, And the bright sea, But, holy and most secret Night, Not as I love and have loved thee. God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made. _Arthur Symons_. XXVIII. The peace of a wandering sky, Silence, only the cry Of the crickets, suddenly still, A bee on the window sill, A bird's wing, rushing and soft, Three flails that tramp in the loft, Summer murmuring Some sweet, slumberous thing, Half asleep: _Arthur Symons_. XXIX. Only a little holiday of sleep, Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm, A little sleep--it matters not how deep; A little falling feather from thy wing, Merciful Lord,--is it so great a thing? _Richard Le Gallienne_. XXX. A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie Sleepless! * * * * * Come, blessed barrier between day and day. Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! _William Wordsworth_. XXXI. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Does not the sun rise smiling When fair at eve he sets' _Anonymous_. XXXII. The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose, The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. _Percy Bysshe Shelley_. XXXIII. We lay Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound Of far-off torrents charming the still night, To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. _William Wordsworth_. XXXIV. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gle
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