Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Sleep

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound          Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught;          Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought          As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound;          For I am weary, and am overwrought          With too much toil, with too much care distraught,          And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek,          O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released          I breathe again uninterrupted breath! Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek          Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast          Whereof the greater mystery is death!