Classic Poem

Blessed sleep, kindest minister to man,
Sure and silent distiller of the balm of rest,
Having alone the power, when naught else can,
To soothe the torn and sorrow-ridden breast.
When bleeding hearts no comforter can find,
When burdened souls droop under weight of woe,
When thought is torture to the troubled mind,
When grief-relieving tears refuse to flow,
Respite but comes on sleep's faint-beating wings;
From them oblivion's sweet peace is shed —
But ah, the old pain that the waking brings,
That lives again so soon as sleep is fled.
Man, why should thought of death cause you to weep,
Since death is but an endless, dreamless sleep.