The Sleeping Wife

My wife! how calmly sleepest thou!
A perfect peace is on thy brow:
Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid,
Like stars behind a cloud, are hid;
Thy voice is mute, and not a sound
Disturbs the tranquil air around;
I'll watch, and mark each line of grace
That God has drawn upon thy face.
My wife! my wife! thy bosom fair,
That heaves with breath more pure than air
Which dwells within the scented rose,
Is wrapped in deep and still repose; —
So deep, that I erewhile did start,
And lay my hand upon thy heart,
In sudden fear that stealthy death
Had slyly robbed thee of thy breath.
My wife! my wife! thy face now seems
To show the tenor of thy dreams;
Methinks thy gentle spirit plays
Amid the scenes of earlier days;
Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him
Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim
And shadowy future strive to pry,
With woman's curious, earnest eye.
Sleep on! sleep on! my dreaming wife!
Thou livest now another life,
With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth; —
I will not call thee back to earth:
Sleep on, until the car of morn
Above the eastern hills is borne;
Then thou wilt wake again, and bless
My sight with living loveliness