Classic Poem

No, gentle Friend, thou canst not give me sleep—
Yon velvet mead, that smiles beneath the steep,
Gives not its verdure to the soil-less rock—
Or when shall those bright clouds, Heav'n's countless flock,
With golden tissue line the chill sea-sand?
Or tempest-shattered trees, that pining stand
Receive rich robes, their nakedness to cover,
From leafy neighbours, blossom-starred all over?
If thou art Crœsus-rich in balmy slumbers,
As are thy waking hours in tuneful numbers,
Rich in Morphean poppies, richer still
In thoughts like roses, offspring of good will,
Thou shouldst be Dives with a wealthier heart,
Whilst I must wholly bear sad Lazarus' part,
Unless thy influence with the stars above
Should cause them on my head such dews to weep,
And pour such beams of their refreshing love
That, thus consoled, I scarce should pray for sleep.