Classic Poem

Now the day
Burns away.
Most austere
Night is here
— Time for sleep.

And, to sleep,
If you please,
For release
Into peace,
Think of these.

Snails that creep,
Silver-slow;
Streams that flow,
Murmuring,
Murmuring;
Bells that chime,
Sweet — clear — c-o-o-l;
Of a pool
Hushed so still
Stars drowse there,
Sleepy-fair;
Of a hill
Drenched with night,
Drowned with moon's
Lovely light;
Of soft tunes,
Played so slow,
Kind and low,
You sink down,
Into down,
Into rest,
Into the perfect whiteness,
The drowsy, drowsy lightness,
The warm, clean, sleepy feathers of a slumbering bird's white breast.