Echoes! O wintry cricket, welcome thou!
(See sonnets on the same topic by John Keats and Leigh Hunt.)
To My Mother Sleeping
Sleep on, my mother! sweet and innocent dreams
Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams that gild
Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasures filled
And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems,
Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams,
Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build;
And calmest thoughts, like violets distilled,
Their fragrance mingle with bright wisdom's beams.
Sleep on, my mother! not the lily's bell
So sweet; not the enamoured west-wind's sighs
That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell
So gentle; not that dew-drop ere it flies
So pure. Even slumber loves with thee to dwell,
O model most beloved of good and wise.