Rose Terry Cooke: Verses about Sleep

Night comes creeping slowly o'er me,
Like a vapor cold and gray;
Dim the track that lies before me,
Lost the lingering smile of day.

As a river, nearing ocean,
Drops the brooklet's merry bell,
I forget hope's wild emotion;
Love and life, farewell, farewell!

Eyes above me raining sorrow,
Lips too tender to be true,
In the sunshine of tomorrow
Glow and sweetness shall renew.

I have trod a weary measure,
Fairy-tales no more I tell.
False is pain, and fleeting pleasure;
Love and life, farewell, farewell!

Softly through the darkened heaven,
Like a vision in the night,
Float the purple wings of even;
No more laughter, no more light.

Close mine eyes, worn out with weeping,
Weary pulses rest as well!
In the dust and silence sleeping,
Love and life, farewell, farewell!

I watch her in the corner there,
As, restless, bold, and unafraid,
She slips and floats along the air
Till all her subtile house is made.

Her home, her bed, her daily food
All from that hidden store she draws;
She fashions it and knows it good,
By instinct's strong and sacred laws.

No tenuous threads to weave her nest,
She seeks and gathers there or here;
But spins it from her faithful breast,
Renewing still, till leaves are sere.

Then, worn with toil, and tired of life,
In vain her shining traps are set.
Her frost hath hushed the insect strife
And gilded flies her charm forget.

But swinging in the snares she spun,
She sways to every winter wind:
Her joy, her toil, her errand done,
Her corse the sport of storms unkind.

Poor sister of the spinster clan!
I too from out my store within
My daily life and living plan,
My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.

I know thy heart when heartless hands
Sweep all that hard-earned web away:
Destroy its pearled and glittering bands,
And leave thee homeless by the way.

I know thy peace when all is done.
Each anchored thread, each tiny knot,
Soft shining in the autumn sun;
A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.

I know what thou hast never known,
-Sad presage to a soul allowed;-
That not for life I spin, alone.
But day by day I spin my shroud.

'Stretch out thy hand, insatiate Time!
Keeper of keys, restore to me
Some gift that in the gray Earth's prime
Her happy children held of thee;
Some signet of that mystery
Thy footsteps trample into death,
Some score of that strange harmony
That sings in every breath.'

So sung I on an autumn-day,
Sitting in silence, golden, clear,
When even the mild winds seemed to pray
Beside the slowly dying year,
And the old conqueror stopped to hear;
For, like the echo of a bell,
I heard him speak, in accents clear:
'Choose! and thy wise choice tell!'

Then all my vanishing desires,
The threads of hope and joy and pain,
Long burned in life's consuming fires,
Came glittering into life again,
And, gathered as a summer rain
Into the rainbow's bended wing,
Cried, with one voice of longing vain:
'Give me Fastrada's ring!

'Give me that talisman of peace
She wore upon her finger white,
Then shall the weary visions cease,
That haunt me all the lingering night;
The world shall blossom with delight,
And birds of heaven about me sing;
Ah! fill these darkened eyes with light!
Give me Fastrada's ring!

'Give me no jewels from thy store,
No learned scrolls, no gems of art;
My eager wishes grasp at more:
Sleep for a worn and wretched heart;
A draught to melt these lips apart,
Sealed with such thirst as death-pains bring;
Love,-life's sole rest and better part,
Give me Fastrada's ring!'