On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep! 
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest: 
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep, 
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast. 

O steep my senses in oblivion's balm, 
And sooth my throbbing pulse with lenient hand; 
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm! 
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command. 

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom, 
And sadly toiling through the tedious night, 
I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom, 
For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight. 

Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm: 
Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike 
To me appear, while with uplifted arm 
Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.