O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reaped harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face; And all thy crowned flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CELEBRATION by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING PHILOMELA: PHILOMELA'S ODE [THAT SHE SANG IN HER ARBOR] by ROBERT GREENE THE SONG OF THE SHIRT by THOMAS HOOD A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON |