on this my pensive pillow, gentle sleep
descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
and place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

o steep my senses in oblivion's balm,
and sooth my throbbing pulse with lenient hand;
this tempest of my boiling blood becalm!
despair grows mild at thy supreme command.

yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
and sadly toiling through the tedious night,
i seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,
for ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.

nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
black midnight and the blaze of noon alike
to me appear, while with uplifted arm
death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.