Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 7

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VII MORNING DREAMS
I asked of Night, that she would take me
 Where I could not go by day.
I asked of Day, he should not wake me
 Ere the sun was on his way;

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For as the sun steals from the flowers
 The crystal dew by which they live,
He kills the memory of those hours
 Which Night, for my delight, will give.

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