Poetry Archives

O Sleep, thou kindest minister to man,
  Silent distiller of the balm of rest,
How wonderful thy power, when naught else can,
  To soothe the torn and sorrow-laden breast!
When bleeding hearts no comforter can find,
  When burdened souls droop under weight of woe,
When thought is torture to the troubled mind,
  When grief-relieving tears refuse to flow;
’Tis then thou comest on soft-beating wings,
  And sweet oblivion’s peace from them is shed;
But ah, the old pain that the waking brings!
  That lives again so soon as thou art fled!

Man, why should thought of death cause thee to weep;
Since death be but an endless, dreamless sleep?