Night has always been her enemy,
When constant, soothing motion is forbid.
Her head mines the breadth of her pillow
As if that's where her precious sleep were hid.
She tosses so regular, and
Turns with such state!
So pendulously tolls, "It's
Late, it's late, it's late!"
She calls it restfullness and prays
To God in imperious tones, "Thou wilt
Give me peace and respite." Meanwhile
Her thoughts sift deep around her, fretful silt.
In the end, she sleeps, or doesn't. Either way
The sun and she both rise and greet the day.