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It is one of the happiest boons of youth, and we never know its value 
until we have lost it. 
Sleep wraps one all round like a blanket. 
Ho wonder, that a poet sings: 
“Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of art, the balm of woe, 
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, 
The indifferent judge between the high and low.” 
A Legend of the Poppy. 
At Nazareth once the Child lay ill! 
His face was white and drawn and still; 
While Mary, full of anxious grief, 
Simples prepared for His relief. 
But naught availed; then Joseph said, 
Bending above the little bed: 
“To a physician I shall go; 
We cannot see Him languish so.” 
But Mary answered: “Joseph, stay! , 
You have been laboring hard today. 
Let me go!” With one kiss upon 
The Boy’s white forehead, she was gone. 
Quickly across the fields she sped; 
The Grain had just been harvested; 
Her sandalled feet were pierced by stones— 
She only thought of Jesus’ moans. 
Returning soon with cordial fine, 
She gave it to the Child Divine; 
Swiftly it flowed through every vein, 
And morning found Him free from pain. 
Then Mary said: “Come, my sweet Boy! 
The fields are full of life and joy! 
Let us go forth, and flowerets wild 
* I’ll wreathe in garlands for my Child.” 
