Sonnet Xxvii: Poem by George Henry Boker

My darling, now the slumber of the night
Lies on thy eyelids, and thy guiltless heart
Rocks, like an empty pinnace moored apart
From the rough storms through which it took its flight
To this calm haven, where the billow's might
Dies in the swimming lily, and no start
From life's rude outer sea breaks in to dart
Its mortal anguish on thy sealed sight.
To me, deep freighted with my love and grief,
Who labor tempest-tost, no joy there seems
Whose tender touch can equal the relief
Of healing sleep, that closes out the beams
Of the red sun with rest,--not light nor brief,
But stony, death-like sleep, too deep for dreams.