Classic Poem

Since I am reft of thee
What solace can there be
In all the world for me?

When that consoler, Sleep,
With her soft hands would reap
The mournful hours I keep.

Gently I bid her go
And on my fair, my foe,
Her amaranth bestow.

Let sleep whose grey wing makes
Our dreams, and beauty wakes
As wind on summer lakes,

Not leave thee desolate
When thou art old, and wait
For Death to loose the gate.