Invocation

O, placid Death! O, lotos-circled king! Parent of rest and endless slumbering! With downy-sandalled pace approach me now, And bathe my lips and palpitating brow From flagons full of cool Lethean spray, For I am weary of the light of day. Or call to Sleep, thy mild dejected twin, And when the rosy-fingered Morn shall rise, Will ye aloft upon the healthy wind, That blows from out her dewy balconies, Waft me to those calm isles, whose tribes obey Sky-fallen Saturn’s ever peaceful sway?