To Sleep

Ah,

Sleep, to me thou com'st not in the

Of one who brings good gifts to weary men,

Balm for bruised hearts and fancies

To unkind truth, and drying for sad eyes.

I dread the summons to that fierce

Of all my foes and woes, that waits me

Thou mak'st my soul the unwilling

Of thy dim troubled house where unrest lies.

My soul is sick with dreaming, let it rest.

False Sleep, thou hast conspired with Wakefulness,

I will not praise thee,

I too long

With idle tales.

Where is thy soothing breast ?

Thy peace, thy poppies, thy forgetfulness ?

Where is thy lap for me so tired a child ?