538. To Sleep

John Keats (1795—1821)

  O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!

  Shutting with careful fingers and benign

  Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light,

  Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;

  O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,

  In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,

  Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws

  Around my bed its lulling charities;

  Then save me, or the passèd day will shine

  Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

  Save me from curious conscience, that still lords

  Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

  Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,

  And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.