Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound
         Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught;
         Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought
         As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound
The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound;
         For I am weary, and am overwrought
         With too much toil, with too much care distraught,
         And with the iron crown of anguish crowned.
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek,
         O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released
         I breathe again uninterrupted breath!
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek
         Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast
         Whereof the greater mystery is death!