Sleep
O GLORIOUS tide, O hospitable tide,
On whose moon-heaving breast my head hath lain,
Lest I, all eased of wounds and washed of stain,
Through holy hours, be yet unsatisfied,
Loose me betimes ! for in my soul abide
Urgings of memory, and exile’s pain
Weighs on me, as the spirit of one slain
May throb for the old strife wherein he died.
On whose moon-heaving breast my head hath lain,
Lest I, all eased of wounds and washed of stain,
Through holy hours, be yet unsatisfied,
Loose me betimes ! for in my soul abide
Urgings of memory, and exile’s pain
Weighs on me, as the spirit of one slain
May throb for the old strife wherein he died.
On golden-footed shallows, from the sea,
From dark, from dreams, to each exultant day,
Oh, speed me! Swooned an outworn king erewhile,
Whom swart Phæacians shoreward bore ; and me,
Thy loving healed Greek, thou, too, shalt lay Beneath the olive boughs of mine own isle.
From dark, from dreams, to each exultant day,
Oh, speed me! Swooned an outworn king erewhile,
Whom swart Phæacians shoreward bore ; and me,
Thy loving healed Greek, thou, too, shalt lay Beneath the olive boughs of mine own isle.
Louise Imogen Guiney.