Classic Poem

O thou that, Sleep, stillest the infant's cries,
And servest him on his mother's lap, his throne,
Wrapping in balm his lordly suffering eyes,
Binding his limbs, that fight with wants unknown;
Thou, that the world-worn man too oft invites
With druggist anodyne's perfidious spell,
When the drear bell that tells the waste of nights
Becomes too soon the summoning matin-bell;
Come thou to me; but not with forced weight
To palsy sense and leave the mind forlorn:
Dreamful or dreamless come, irradiate
Of infinite life, smiling to leave at morn:
On me, as infant still, and worn, descend:
Life's press, that smothers cries, awhile suspend.