There have been nights when I could sleep, of course,
In calmer times, when less was on my mind.
But now the end of day is less than kind
And keeps instead perpetual divorce
Between me and my rest. I know the source
Of this unease, and yet I cannot find,
Even with the cause so well-defined
Any solution; neither will nor force
Has power over sleep, nor can I solve
The problems whose consideration brings
This sleeplessness to me. I simply turn
Over and over the confounded things
Which bar my rest; and still I cannot learn
A magic which might cause them to dissolve.
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