sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man the most guilty.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.
The sleep of a laboring man is sweet.
Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies!
Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.
The unwaking world was as hushed as a deep forest.
And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - he hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Sleep is death without the responsibility.
Father in Heaven! When the thought of thee wakes in our hearts let it not awaken like a frightened bird that flies about in dismay, but like a child waking from its sleep with a heavenly smile.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Sleep ... peace of the soul, who puttest care to flight.
How undisturbed, the sleep of the foolish.
That death was near, I suppose I believed, but I saw it only as a rest after the day's work.
I want to sleep for eternity with a broad smile on my face. I want those who remain behind to say this man has done his duty.
O Death, rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest, let pass my weary guiltless ghost out of my careful breast.
Sleep is good, he said, And books are better.
There is nothing nicer than nodding off while reading. Going fast asleep and then being woken by the crash of the book on the floor, then saying to yourself, well it doesn't matter much. An admirable feeling.
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
Every sleepy boy and girl in every bed around the world- Can hear the stars up in the sky whispering a lullaby
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.
Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.
