Near the Cimmerian land, deep-caverned, lies
A hollow mount, the home of sluggish Sleep;
Where never ray from morn or evening skies
Can enter, but where blackening vapours creep,
And doubtful gloom unbroken sway doth keep.
There never crested bird evokes the dawn,
Nor watchful dogs disturb the silence deep,
Nor wandering beast, nor forest tempest-torn,
Nor harsher sound of human passions born.
Mute quiet reigns;-but from the lowest cave
A spring Lethean rising evermore
Pours through the murmuring rocks a slumberous wave.
The plenteous poppy blossoms at the door,
And countless herbs, of night the drowsy store.