Poetry Archives

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
  Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
  Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
    Love calls to war:
      Sighs his alarms,
    Lips his swords are,
      The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
  On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
  For torches to our nuptial grace.
    Love calls to war:
      Sighs his alarms,
    Lips his swords are,
      The field his arms.