If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, <br />On many a night had risen, and addressed <br />His hand to make him out of joy and moan <br />An image of sweet sleep in carven stone, <br />Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned, <br />He would have wrought her with a patient hand, <br />Not like her brother death, with massive limb <br />And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim, <br />But very fair, though fitful and afraid, <br />More sweet and slight than any mortal maid. <br />Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth <br />Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe <br />All fevers in, yet barbed here and there <br />With many a hidden sting of restless care; <br />Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest, <br />Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest <br />Of noiseless doubt were there; so too her eyes <br />His light hand would have carved in cunning wise <br />Broad with all languor of the drowsy South, <br />Most beautiful, but held askance; her mouth <br />More soft and round than any rose half-spread, <br />Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread. <br />He would have made her with one marble foot, <br />Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put, <br />Bearing sweet medicine for all distress, <br />Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness; <br />The other held a little back for dread; <br />One slender moonpale hand held forth to shed <br />Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip <br />Into wide eyes; the other on her lip. <br />So in the watches of his sleepless care <br />The cunning artist would have wrought her fair; <br />Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid <br />Yet often coming, when we last have prayed.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sleep-151/
