Sleep-Book

XXXVI.

Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life,
Come back to me, come back to me! Hold out
Your wonderful, wide arms and gather me
Again against your breast. I lay above
Your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow
As waters that obey the moon and lo,
Rest infinite was mine and calm. My soul
Is sick for want of you. Oh, Morpheus,
Heart of my weary heart, come back to me!

Leolyn Louise Everett.

XXXVII.

Lips
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent dreams arose.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

XXXVIII.

A late lark twitters in the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke a