For now he doth forget his misery,
And all the burden of his hopeless woe
Is lifted from him by the gentle hand
Of slumber. Oh, to those bereft of hope
Sleep is the only blessing left,--the last
Asylum of the weary, the one sign
Of pity from impenetrable heaven.
Waking is strife: sleep is the truce of God!
Ah, lady, wake him not. The day will be
Full long for him to suffer, and for us