VII - To Sleep

  Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
  And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
  The very sweetest words that fancy frames
  When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
  Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep
  In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
  All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
  Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
  Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone;
  I surely not a man ungently made,
  Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
  Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown,
  Mere Slave of them who never for thee pray'd,
  Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

• About William Wordsworth