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David Calvert

A multiplicity of thoughts they come to me as in my bed I lie.

In the twilight world of evening is heard my cheerless sigh;
‘Oh give me sleep sweet Morpheus and cleave me to your breast
And whisper softly of your world wherein is found my rest.’
But still there comes no deep repose -your promise is denied!
Yet all about the others sleep - your covenant supplied.

The hours pass, unrestrained, as through the gloom I stare,

And mutter of injustices and smooth my matted hair.
Six hundred sheep, or four or five, or maybe it was eight -
My fevered brain no longer cared how many jumped the gate.

Seeking solace in a cup, I left my tortured bed.

When only halfway down the stairs I tripped and banged my head.
My errant god of sleep I found, though painfully, I admit.
He visits me whenever he can - if matron will permit.