Sleep.

If any man, with sleepless care oppressed,     On many a night had risen, and addressed     His hand to make him out of joy and moan     An image of sweet sleep in carven stone,     Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned,     He would have wrought her with a patient hand,     Not like her brother death, with massive limb     And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim,     But very fair, though fitful and afraid,     More sweet and slight than any mortal maid.     Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth     Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe     All fevers in, yet barbd here and there     With many a hidden sting of restless care;     Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest,     Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest     Of noiseless doubt were there; so too her eyes     His light hand would have carved in cunning wise     Broad with all languor of the drowsy South,     Most beautiful, but held askance; her mouth     More soft and round than any rose half-spread,     Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread.     He would have made her with one marble foot,     Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put,     Bearing sweet medicine for all distress,     Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness;     The other held a little back for dread;     One slender moonpale hand held forth to shed     Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip     Into wide eyes; the other on her lip.     So in the watches of his sleepless care     The cunning artist would have wrought her fair;     Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid     Yet often coming, when we least have prayed.