Classic Poem

The room, the darkness, and the bed;
Quick ticks the clock; sleep comes not nigh:
A melancholy mind must lie
With troublings of its wakeful head.

Winter without. Assurance spent
A stormy surge of woods around
My house where, blending in the sound,
I think how on the winds life went.

Heard now, but inly taken breath;
Known, but the animate self alone:
And sleep's approaching presence shown
In semblance of undreaming death.