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.
