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 rest.

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