Sorry guys, I haven't been sleeping well and droppign the bal on here. Poetry blogging it is to catch up. Today, I turn to one of my favourite poets agian: John Keats 31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821). He was an English Romantic poet and one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets, along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work having been in publication for only four years before his death. He very frequently used Greek mythology as a theme in his work, and used in this poem as well.
'To Sleep' summons images of Hypnos (Ὕπνος), the God of sleep. Dreams (Oneiroi - Ὄνειροι) are sons of Hypnos, sent by Zeus, and delivered by Hermes, but Hypnos is the one who lets us fall asleep. According to myth, Hypnos lives underneath one of the Greek islands, hidden away in a cave without doors. The entrance is overrun by poppies and other hypnogogic plants. The river Lethe--the river of forgetfulness--runs through the cave. Morpheus (Μορφεύς), the leader of the Oneiroi and God of dreams, stands guard to assure none wake Hypnos.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd 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.
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd 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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