John Keats(1795–1821) · Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, of John Keats · 1848
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its dewy charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.