The hours unslept, unwaking, and unused
Are usually the worst. They could be short
Or long, who knows? My senses have refused
To tell me anything but that I court
Uselessly the spectre of pure sleep
Who flies from me in insubstantial form.
This is the nightly vigil that I keep
And neither calm skies nor a raging storm
Affects me in the slightest. I will be
Hung between the states of wake and rest
For hours that appear eternity
Or days that seem mere minutes at their best;
The constant is, they will not let me lie
Fully asleep, nor wake, although I try.
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