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 ?
