The Promise of Sleep

Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind,
The dreams from out thy breast;

No joy for thee—but thou shalt find
Thy

All day I could not work for woe,
I could not work nor rest;

The trouble drove me to and fro,
Like a leaf on the storm's breast.

Night came and saw my sorrow cease;
Sleep in the chamber stole;

Peace crept about my limbs, and peace
Fell on my stormy soul.

And now I think of only this,—
How I again may

The gentle sleep— who promises
That death is gentle too.