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.