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 belovèd sleep'?  
  
What would we give to our beloved?  
The hero's heart to be unmoved,  
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,  
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?  
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.  
  
What do we give to our beloved?  
A little faith all undisproved,  
A little dust to overweep,  
And bitter memories to make  
The whole earth blasted for our sake.  
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.  
  
'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say,  
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eye-lids creep.  
But never doleful dream again  
Shall break the happy slumber when  
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.  
  
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!  
O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!  
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!  
God strikes a silence through you all,  
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.
  
His dews drop mutely on the hill;  
His cloud above it saileth still,  
Though on its slope men sow and reap.  
More softly than the dew is shed,  
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.  
  
Aye, men may wonder while they scan  
A living, thinking, feeling man  
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;  
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard—  
'He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'  
  
For me, my heart that erst did go  
Most like a tired child at a show,  
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,  
Would child-like on His love repose,  
Who giveth His belovèd, sleep.  
  
And, friends, dear friends,—when it shall be  
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,  
Let One, most loving of you all,  
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall;  
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'
 

Poems by This Author

A Musical Instrument by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What was he doing, the great god Pan
Beloved, my Beloved... (Sonnet 20) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
Flush or Faunus by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
You see this dog. It was but yesterday
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
If thou must love me... (Sonnet 14) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Love by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
We cannot live, except thus mutually
My Letters! all dead paper... (Sonnet 28) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
Say over again... (Sonnet 21) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Say over again, and yet once over again
The Face of All the World (Sonnet 7) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The face of all the world is changed, I think
The Soul's Expression by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
With stammering lips and insufficient sound
To George Sand: A Desire by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man
To George Sand: A Recognition by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
True genius, but true woman! dost deny
When our two souls... (Sonnet 22) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
When our two souls stand up erect and strong