Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman


 

BEFORE SLEEP


 

Now the creeping nets of sleep
    Stretch about and gather nigh,
And the midnight dim and deep
    Like a spirit passes by,
Trailing from her crystal dress                                                   5
    Dreams and silent frostiness.

Yet a moment, ere I be
    Tangled in the snares of night,
All the dreamy heart of me
    To my Lady takes its flight,                                                  10
To her chamber where she lies,
    Wrapt in midnight phantasies.

Over many a glinting street
    And the snow capped roofs of men,
Towers that tremble with the beat                                           15
    Of the midnight bells, and then,
Where my body may not be,
    Stands my spirit holily.

Wake not, Lady, wake not soon:
    Through the frosty windows fall                                           20
Broken glimmers of the moon
    Dimly on the floor and wall;
Wake not, Lady, never care,
    ’Tis my spirit kneeling there.

Let him kneel a moment now,                                                 25
    For the minutes fly apace;
Let him see the sleeping brow,
    And the sweetly rounded face:
He shall tell me soon aright
    How my lady looks to-night.                                                30

How her tresses out and in
    Fold in many a curly freak,
Round about the snowy chin
    And the softly tinted cheek,
Where no sorrows now can weep,                                        35
    And the dimples lie asleep.

How her eyelids meet and match,
    Gathered in two dusky seams,
Each the little creamy thatch
    Of an azure house of dreams,                                           40
Or two flowers that love the light
    Folded softly up at night.

How her bosom, breathing low,
    Stirs the wavy coverlet
With a motion soft and slow:                                                 45
    Oh, my Lady, wake not yet;
There without a thought of guile
    Let my spirit dream a while.

Yet, my spirit back to me,
    Hurry soon and have a care;                                             50
Love will turn to agony,
    If you rashly linger there;
Bending low as spirits may,
    Touch her lips and come away.

So, fond spirit, beauty-fed,                                                    55
    Turning when your wave is o’er,
Weave a cross above the bed
    And a sleep-rune on the floor,
That no evil enter there,
    Ugly shapes and dreams beware.                                   60

Then, ye looming nets of sleep,
    Ye may have me all your own,
For the night is wearing deep
    And the ice-winds whisk and moan;
Come with all your drowsy stress,                                       65
    Dreams and silent frostiness.