Classic Poem

Written in a Sick Chamber

There , in that bed so closely curtained round,
Worn to a shade and wan with slow decay,
A father sleeps! O, hushed be every sound!
Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away!

He stirs — yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams
Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise;
Nor fly, till morning through the shutter streams,
And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies!

English