Sleep

SAY, hast thou never been compelled to lieWakeful in Night's impenetrable deep,Counting the laggard moments that so creepReluctant onward; till, with voiceless cryEnduring, thou hadst willing been to flyFrom Life itself, and in oblivion steepThy tortured senses? To such longed-for sleepDeath is a way; and dost thou fear to die?

Nay, were it this, just this, and naught beside—Merely the calm that we have anguished for,The wayfarer might still be glad to hideFrom grief and suffering!—but how much moreIs Death—Life's servitor and friend—the guideThat safely ferries us from shore to shore!