COME to me, angel of the weary hearted!
Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I too may rest—even I: ah! haste to me.
I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, “Mother,”
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?
Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
Save that most true, most beautiful,—repose.
I have no heart to roam in realms of Faëry,
To follow Fancy at her elfin call:
I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.
Paint not the Future to my fainting spirit,
Though it were starred with glory like the skies;
There is no gift immortals may inherit,
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.
And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never
Be Memory’s downcast gaze unveiled by thee:
Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
— Frances Sargent Osgood