Here you will find thePoemTo Sleepof poet Lord Alfred Douglas
Ah, Sleep, to me thou com'st not in the guise Of one who brings good gifts to weary men, Balm for bruised hearts and fancies alien To unkind truth, and drying for sad eyes. I dread the summons to that fierce assize Of all my foes and woes, that waits me when Thou mak'st my soul the unwilling denizen Of thy dim troubled house where unrest lies. My soul is sick with dreaming, let it rest. False Sleep, thou hast conspired with Wakefulness, I will not praise thee, I too long beguiled With idle tales. Where is thy soothing breast ? Thy peace, thy poppies, thy forgetfulness ? Where is thy lap for me so tired a child ?
