To Sleep

by John Keats

	O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
		Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
	Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
		Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
	O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
		In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
	Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
		Around my bed its lulling charities;
		Then save me, or the passed day will shine
	Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
		Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
	Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
		Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
	And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

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