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Ode To Sleep

 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.

by Thomas Warton
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