X.

My dear and gentle wife, The Angel of my life, Oppressed with sweetest things, Has folded up her wings, And lies in slumber deep, Like some divinest Dream upon the couch of Sleep!

Nor sound, nor stir profanes the stilly room, Haunted by Sleep and Silence, linked pair; The very light itself muffled in gloom, Steals in, and melts the enamored air Where Love doth brood and dream, while Passion dies, Breathing his soul out in a mist of sighs! Lo! where she lies behind the curtains white, Pillowed on clouds of down,--her golden hair Braided around her forehead smooth and fair, Like a celestial diadem of light:-- Her soft voluptuous lips are drawn apart, Curving in fine repose, and maiden pride; Her creamy breast,--its mantle brushed aside Swells with the long pulsation of her heart: One languid arm rests on the coverlid, And one beneath the crumpled sheet is hid, (Ah happy sheets! to hide an arm so sweet!) Nor all concealed amid their folds of snow, The soft perfection of her shape below, Rounded and tapering to her little feet! Oh Love! if Beauty ever left her sphere, And sovereign sisters, Art and Poesy, Moulded in loveliness she slumbers here, Slumbers, dear love, in thee! It is thy smile that makes the chamber still; It is thy breath that fills the scented air; The light around is borrowed from thy hair, And all things else are subject to thy will, And I am so bewildered in this deep Ambrosial calm, and passionate atmosphere, I know not whether I am dreaming here, Or in the world of Sleep!