Sleep

Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink
Muse on me, drifting out upon thy dreams,
I lave my soul as in enchanted streams
Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink,
And tipsy with the melody they drink,
Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams
Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems
An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink
Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly,
Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine,
And siren-arms that coil their sorcery
About my neck, with kisses so divine,
The heavens reel above me, and the sea
Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Robert Burns Wilson.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

We To Sigh Instead Of Sing.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Tradin' Joe

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

That Night

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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At Utter Loaf.

    I.

    An afternoon as ripe with heat
        As might the golden pippin be
    With mellowness if at my feet
        It dropped now from the apple-tree
        My hammock swings in lazily.


    II.

    The boughs about me spread a shade
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        Upon the eyes that only see
        Just of themselves, all drowsily.


    III.

    Above me drifts the fallen skein
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    As fragile as a strand of rain,
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James Whitcomb Riley

A Dream Of Long Ago

Lying listless in the mosses
Underneath a tree that tosses
Flakes of sunshine, and embosses
    Its green shadow with the snow -
Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber
Born of fancies without number -
Tangled fancies that encumber
    Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing;
And the water-lilies swinging
Bells of Parian, and ringing
    Peals of perfume faint and fine,
While old forms and fairy faces
Leap from out their hiding-places
In the past, with glad embraces
    Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers
O'er the little fisher's stringers,
While he baits his hook and lingers
    Till the shadows gather dim;
And afar off comes a calling
Like the sounds of water falling,
With the...

James Whitcomb Riley

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!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

An Out-Worn Sappho

How tired I am! I sink down all alone
Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo,
Even as a child I hide my face and moan -
A little girl that may no farther go;
The path above me only seems to grow
    More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered
With keener thorns of pain than these below;
And O the bleeding feet that falter so
    And are so very tired!

Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands
Of Babyhood - where baby-lilies blew
Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands
With treasures of perfume and honey-dew,
And where the orchard shadows ever drew
    Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired
With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,
And only let the starshine trickle through
    In sprays, when I was tired!

Ye...

James Whitcomb Riley

To Sleep

O gentle sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

William Wordsworth

Sleep.

    Orphaned, I cry to thee:
    Sweet sleep!    O kneel and be
    A mother unto me!
        Calm thou my childish fears:
    Fold - fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly,
    And dry my tears.

    Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed
    And faint with languor, - slide
    Thy dim face down beside
        Mine own, and let me rest
    And nestle in thy heart, and there abide,
    A favored guest.

    Good night to every care,
    And shadow of despair!
    Good night to all things where
        Within is no delight! -
    Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there,
    I sob: Good night - good night!

James Whitcomb Riley