Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind,
The dreams from out thy breast;
No joy for thee–but thou shalt find
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.