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What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care, Sinks down to rest.

What probing deep Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?

But I, in the chilling twilight stand and wait At the portcullis, at thy castle gate, Longing to see the charmed door of dreams Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!

Come to me now! O, come! benignest sleep! And fold me up, as evening doth a flower, From my vain self, and vain things which have power Upon my soul to make me smile or weep. And when thou comest, oh, like Death be deep.

How happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid pow'rless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude; he not in vain Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams. His pow'rs the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose; on him the balmy dews Of Sleep with double nutriment descend.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye at hame, And all the weary world to sleep are gane.

Still believe that ever round you Spirits float who watch and wait; Nor forget the twain who found you Sleeping nigh the Golden Gate.

The sleep of a labouring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much: but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.

Be not among winebibbers; among riotous eaters of flesh: For the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.

It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.

Lord, remember David, and all his afflictions: How he sware unto the Lord, and vowed unto the mighty God of Jacob; Surely I will not come into the tabernacle of my house, nor go up into my bed; I will not give sleep to mine eyes, or slumber to mine eyelids, Until I find a place for the Lord, an habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.

I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.

Since the Brother of Death daily haunts us with dying mementoes.

Sleep is a death, O make me try, By sleeping, what it is to die: And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed.

How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken Pleasures to make room for more-- Sleeping near the withered nosegay which he pulled the day before.

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is. For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

Sleep on, Baby, on the floor, Tired of all the playing, Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in! On your curls' full roundness stand Golden lights serenely-- One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly.

Don't stay in bed, unless you can make money in bed.

Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

Now, blessings light on him that first invented this same sleep! it covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot. It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap; and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even. There is only one thing, which somebody once put into my head, that I dislike in sleep; it is, that it resembles death; there is very little difference between a man in his first sleep, and a man in his last sleep.