My Lady Called Sleep Poem by allan wood

I long for a sweet and gentle sleep,
a sleep in which I do not weep.
So tired of relentless tears,
or facing endless fears.

Years have marred this face with cold disgrace,
only fantasy to embrace.
Just an hour of slumber;
or more without number.

Worst of dream is better than Day's best.
Rest, rest, all sorrow is suppressed.
My love is sweet gentle sleep,
where none do hear me weep.

9,8,7,6
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