And, so I turn from you, and so it seems,
You've held me tightly in your iron grasp,
Ripped from my sleep, the peaceful realm within,
The solace, sweet in solitude I ask:
What means your manner vicious, cold and brusque,
How can your words run honey, sweet and pure,
Though in your hands the words run course and rough,
And falsely fall where dreams had held them true.
Return me now to slumbers' peaceful realm,
Where held by Morpheus, soft the night's caress,
Will soothe the pains where waking days o'erwhelm,
There, finding in his arms, the hope of rest.
For waking little sheilds the heart from pain,
Though dreaming never finds the heart again.