He slept as only under the free heaven
 It is given to sleep, a slumber shadowless
 As the broad river to whose banks at even
 That spirit comes which brings forgetfulness,
 A silence undisturbed by the world's tread,
 Which sees not, hears not, feels not, yet is girt
 With sound and light and sense; which seeming dead
 Drinks in Earth's life in cure of every hurt
 And so takes consolation. Dreams anon
 Come for the soul's refreshment, apparitions
 Begot of heaven's beauty and the sun,
 No meaningless expectance of sad visions
 But tales prophetic of new days more fair
 And to be numbered with the things that are,
Natalias Resurrection: Sonnet XII
written byWilfrid Scawen Blunt
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt





