Sonnet Xxvii:

My darling, now the slumber of the night Lies on thy eyelids, and thy guiltless heart Rocks, like an empty pinnace moored apart From the rough storms through which it took its flight To this calm haven, where the billow's might Dies in the swimming lily, and no start From life's rude outer sea breaks in to dart Its mortal anguish on thy sealed sight. To me, deep freighted with my love and grief, Who labor tempest-tost, no joy there seems Whose tender touch can equal the relief Of healing sleep, that closes out the beams Of the red sun with rest,--not light nor brief, But stony, death-like sleep, too deep for dreams.