He is but a child, no older than the sea, no
stranger than the mountains, pure and cold as the water-springs. Yet
to the bolster of fever his vision flits; and pain drags a heavy net
to snare him; and silence is his echoing gallery; and the gold of
Sleep his final veil. They shall play on; and see, lady, flame has
left the clouds; the birds are at rest. The earth breathes in, and it
is day; and exhales her breath, and it is night. Let them then play
secret and innocent between her breasts, comfort her with silence
above the tempest of her heart.... But I!--what am I?--a traveller,
footsore and far."
And then it was that I became conscious of a warm, sly, youthful hand
in mine, and turned, half in dread, to see only happy Sleep laughing
under his glistening hair into my eyes. I strove in vain against his
sorcery; rolled foolish orbs on that pure, starry face; and then I
smelled as it were rain, and heard as it were tempestuous
forest-trees--fell asleep among the tombs.
XIII
_I warmed both hands before the fire of life._
--WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
Surely some hueless poppy blossomed in the darkness of those ruins, or
the soulless ashes of the dead breathe out a drowsy influence.
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