 | Poems |  |
CXCII
SLEEP
Others may praise thee, Sleep; so will not I.
I loathe thee from the bottom of my heart.
Thou art a dull and ill-conceivèd lie,
To turn quick nature into cunning art.
I loathe thee from the bottom of my heart.
Thou art a dull and ill-conceivèd lie,
To turn quick nature into cunning art.
“The sleeping and the dead are pictures.” Yea,
I love not pictures eyeless, soulless, still,
Mere portraits of the perishable clay,
Bereft of reason, passion, strength, and will.
I love not pictures eyeless, soulless, still,
Mere portraits of the perishable clay,
Bereft of reason, passion, strength, and will.
180
Others may woo thee, Sleep; so will not I.
Dear is each minute of my conscious breath,
Hard fate, that, ere the time be come to die,
Myself, to live, must nightly mimic death.
Dear is each minute of my conscious breath,
Hard fate, that, ere the time be come to die,
Myself, to live, must nightly mimic death.
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