William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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 vexed with mockery.

I have no pain that calls for patience, no;

Hence am I cross and peevish as a child,

Am pleased 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.