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.