Tidal pull, the coming sleep,
void-made call, the ringing deep,
from noise of life, the sudden cease,
to aching which seems to have no ease.
In the night that echoed wonder:
of each and every cursed blunder.
And in the quiet, close to sleeping,
the demon doubt crouches, creeping.
So turn to pillow, pad, and quilting,
the lullaby so sweetly lilting.
Dream and pass from pain to sunrise,
from ache to wake, the demon excise.