The Sleep-seekers

Lift thou the latch whereon the wild rose clings, Touch the green door to which the briar has grown. If you seek sleep, she dwells not with these things,— The prisoned wood, the voiceless reed, the stone. But where the day yields to one star alone, Softly Sleep cometh on her brown owl-wings, Sliding above the marshes silently To the dim beach between the black pines and the sea.

There; or in one leaf-shaken loveliness Of birchen light and shadow, deep she dwells, Where the song-sparrow and the thrush are heard, And once a wandering flute-voiced mocking-bird, Where, when the year was young, Grew sweet faint bloodroot, and the adder-tongue Lifting aloft her spire of golden bells.

Here shall we lift our lodge against the rain, Walling it deep With tamarac branches and the balsam fir, Sweet even as sleep, And aspen boughs continually astir To make a silver-gleaming,— Here shall we lift our lodge and find again A little space for dreaming.