Poetry: Another Day

A deam it comes, oh, but it can't enchant.

Wicked, useless, so not restful is sleep,

And try one may to slumber still

A bash to think it'd not be shrill.


So this is sleep, 'tis restful not.

For when one sleeps, terror comes on.

To what avail? I know not yet.

But 'tis true: one needs to sleep.


Thus rest dear child, rest away.

Morning comes: it brings a better day.

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