Classic Poem

Upon a bed of flowery moss,
With moonbeams falling all across
Moonbeams chilly and faint and dim,
(Sweet eyes I ween do watch for him)
Lieth his starry dreams among,
The gentlest poet ever sung.

The wood is thick — 't is late in night,
Yet feareth he no evil sprite,
Nor vexing ghost — such things there be
In many a poet's destiny.
Haply some wretched fast or prayer,
Pained and long, hath charmed the air.

Softer than hymenial hymns
The fountains, bubbling o'er their rims,
Wash through the vernal reeds, and fill
The hollows: all beside is still,
Save the poet's breathing, low and light.
Watch no more, lady — no more to-night! —
Heavy his gold locks are with dew,
Yet by the pansies mixed with rue.

Bitter and rough, but now that fell
From his shut hand, he sleepeth well.
He sleepeth well, and his dream is bright
Under the moonbeams chilly and white.

The night is dreary, the boy is fair —
Hath he been mated with Despair,
Or crossed in love, that he lies alone
With shadows and moonlight overblown —
Shadows and moonlight chilly and dim?
And do no sweet eyes watch for him?

Nay, rather is his soul instead
With immortal thirst disquieted,
That oft like an echo wild and faint
He makes to the hills and the groves his plaint?
That oft the light on his forehead gleams,
So troubled under its crown of dreams?

Watch no more, lady, no more, I pray,
He is wrapt in a lonely power away!
Sweet boy, so sleeping, might it be
That any prayer I said for thee
Could answer win from the spirit shore,
This were it, " Let him wake no more! "