The Sleeper

The fire is in a steadfast glow,
The curtains drawn against the night ;
Upon the red couch soft and low
Between the fire and lamp alight
She rests half-sitting, half-reclining,
Encompassed by the cosy shining,
Her ruby dress with lace trimmed white.
Her left hand shades her drooping eyes
Against the fervour of the fire,
The right upon her cincture lies
In languid grace beyond desire,
A lily fallen among roses ;
So placidly her form reposes,
It scarcely seemeth to respire.
She is not surely all awake,
As yet she is not all asleep ;
The eyes with lids half open take
A startled deprecating peep
Of quivering drowsiness, then slowly
The lids sink back, before she wholly
Resigns herself to slumber deep.

The side-neck gleams so pure beneath
The underfringe of gossamer,
The tendrils of whose faery wreath
The softest sigh suppressed would stir.
The little pink-shell ear-rim flushes
With her young blood's translucent blushes,
Nestling in tresses warm as fur.

The contour of her cheek and chin
Is curved in one delicious line,
Pure as a vase of porcelain thin
Through which a tender light may shine ;
Her brow and blue-veined temple gleaming
Beneath the dusk of hair back-streaming
Are as a virgin's marble shrine.

The ear is burning crimson fire,
The flush is brightening on the face,
The lips are parting to suspire,
The hair grows restless in its place
As if itself new tangles wreathing ;
The bosom with her deeper breathing
Swells and subsides with ravishing grace.

The hand slides softly to caress,
Unconscious, that fine-pencilled curve
" Her lip's contour and downiness,"
Unbending with a sweet reserve ;
A tender darkness that abashes
Steals out beneath the long dark lashes,
Whose sightless eyes make eyesight swerve.

The hand on chin and throat downslips,
Then softly, softly on her breast ;
A dream comes fluttering o'er the lips,
And stirs the eyelids in their rest,
And makes their undershadows quiver,
And like a ripple on a river
Glides through her breathing manifest.

I feel an awe to read this dream
So clearly written in her smile ;
A pleasant not a passionate theme,
A little love, a little guile ;
I fear lest she should speak revealing
The secret of some maiden feeling
I have no right to hear the while.

The dream has passed without a word
Of all that hovered finely traced ;
The hand has slipt down, gently stirred
To join the other at her waist ;
Her breath from that light agitation
Has settled to its slow pulsation ;
She is by deep sleep re-embraced.

Deep sleep, so holy in its calm,
So helpless, yet so awful too ;
Whose silence sheds as sweet a balm
As ever sweetest voice could do ;
Whose tranced eyes, unseen, unseeing,
Shadowed by pure love, thrill our being
With tender yearnings through and through.

Sweet sleep ; no hope, no fear, no strife ;
The solemn sanctity of death,
With all the loveliest bloom of life ;
Eternal peace in mortal breath :
Pure sleep from which she will awaken
Refreshed as one who hath partaken
New strength, new hope, new love, new faith.