| by Nathaniel H.
I tire of being on a schedule. I grow weary of places to go,
And when the day has run its course, I delight in the moon's
soft glow
Every man claims to love his rest, But he likewise claims his
sleep, And in this foolish business, He further his schedule
keeps.
For when the night has fallen down, And all his duties done,
He races to sleep as to another task, Keeping his be-deviled
run.
And when he fails at first to sleep, He curses that merciful
fate, Which, though it gives him chance to think, He derides
with a bitter hate.
Give to me those peaceful hours, The silent tranquil few.
That I might ponder stuff and things, And over life's
incidentals stew.
Insomnia -- sweet blessed word! I will ever love you. For
only rarely does the cruel clock fail, Sweet failures but few.
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