Poetry Archives

Mother of balms and soothings manifold,
  Quiet-breathed night whose brooding hours are seven,
  To whom the voices of all rest are given,
And those few stars whose scattered names are told,
Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled,
  Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even,
  The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven,
And under the one star—a point of gold:

And all go slowly lingering toward the west,
As we go down forgetfully to our rest,
  Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light:
Ah, it was time that thou should’st come; for we
Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee,
  Thou sweet physician, balmy-blossomed night.