Yale University Prize Poem 
 1900
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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 YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM 
 
 IQOO 
 
 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES ALEXIS KELLOGG, JR. 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 
 THE TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR Co. 
 1900 
 
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 PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 This poem received the third award of the prize 
 offered by Professor Albert S. Cook to Yale Uni 
 versity for the best unpublished verse, the committee 
 of award consisting of Professors Charlton M. Lewis, 
 George E. Woodberry, and Charles F. Richardson.
 
 THE MOTHER'S SLEEP 
 
 i 
 
 Soft-borne and drowsy, muffled in the dark, 
 The sheepfold's tinkling rises ; in long notes 
 The cowherd drones his call ; and, floating faint 
 From a distant hilltop, horn-blasts swell and die. 
 The oaks have ceased their rustling and are still, 
 Save for the dreamy twittering deep within. 
 In heaven the little, lonesome clouds are pale 
 With wandering, and nestle to their rest, 
 Unhoused. All garish lights are hid, and night 
 Is kindling soft-flamed watch-fires o'er the Earth. 
 Closing her weary eyes, and drawing close 
 Her darkling robe, the Earth breathes soft and sighs, 
 And sinks asleep. I would that I, too, slept.
 
 II 
 
 O would that I might sleep 
 
 And dream like the Mother dreaming ; 
 
 So wondrous calm and deep, 
 
 A sleep that is past our deeming ! 
 
 We close our gloom-pressed eyes ; 
 Our souls are for ever waking. 
 We couch our limbs, and rise 
 With hearts that are ever aching. 
 
 And all our wish is rest, 
 
 Short rest and a little slumber, 
 
 That we may fight our best 
 
 Through battles that have no number.
 
 Ill 
 
 The sleep of the Mother is dewy and soft, 
 
 And balms from her breath arise 
 As sweet as the honey-flowered locust aloft, 
 
 And fresh as the morn-streaked skies. 
 
 Her bosom is calm, and her breathing is still 
 
 And soft as the sea-breeze blows ; 
 But deep in her breast is a wondrous thrill 
 
 Like that in an unblown rose. 
 
 And all through the dark swells the joy in her breast 
 
 To burst with the rose-rimmed light 
 In bird-caroled paeans of joy for her rest, 
 
 And joy for her fresh-limbed might. 
 
 The lovely-haired goddess all-radiant springs 
 
 To greet with a song the morn ; 
 " The toils of the ages are nothing " she sings, 
 
 " Then hail to the toils unborn ! "
 
 IV 
 
 Great Mother, may it be 
 
 That, when the life-springs cease flowing 
 
 And men return to Thee, 
 
 They enter that sleep past knowing ? 
 
 A sleep which, full and strong, 
 Is deep, yet prepares a waking ; 
 For though the night be long 
 The morn will again be breaking, 
 
 And we shall have our rest, 
 Sweet rest and a welcome slumber, 
 And rise to fight our best 
 Through battles that have no number.
 
 The Earth sleeps on. The sheepfold now is hushed ; 
 
 No horn-blast wakes an echo ; all the birds 
 
 Are mute and dreaming save the owl, whose notes, 
 
 Forlorn and querulous, bemoan her lot 
 
 Of outcast. Cradled on the sky's broad breast 
 
 Float still the cloudlets, now not pale, but topped 
 
 With shade, and downy-bosomed. Star-fires wane ; 
 
 The eastern heaven is filled with liquid light ; 
 
 And lo, the great-eyed moon upthrusts her head 
 
 Above yon hill and stares across to this. 
 
 Softly she cometh not to wake but watch 
 
 The Sleeper. Slow she mounts and peers below. 
 
 The darkness melts and passes from the vales ; 
 
 The meadow-lands are mellowed in the light ; 
 
 Even the grim and black-browed forests smile, 
 
 Grow radiant, and drink deep the silver flood.
 
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