William Wordsworth

To Sleep

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep! Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

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