V - To Sleep

  O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,
  These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
  To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
  A Captive never wishing to be free.
  This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
  A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
  Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
  Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
  I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
  Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
  Am pleas'd by fits to have thee for my foe,
  Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
  O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
  But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

• About William Wordsworth