O soft
embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our
gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in
forgetfulness divine:
O
soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "
Amen," ere thy
poppy throws
Around my bed its
lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--
Save me from curious
Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness,
burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the
hushed
Casket of my Soul.
- John Keats