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Poetry and Sleep
Children Sleep
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
Eugene Field (1850-1895)
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe---
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea---
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish---
Never afeard are we";
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam---
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea---
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The Sad Mother
Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957)
Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.
Sleep, sleep, and in the night
may your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
or the silken fleece of lambs.
May my flesh slumber in you,
my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close
and my heart sleep.
SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!
By Jerine James
Sleep, sleep, sleep
It’s magnificent and nice,
With dreams beyond wonder,
Sleep! sleep! sleep!
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Eyes tightly closed,
A little smile on your cheeks,
Feeling the warm sensations
Of the pure and precious sleep,
Sleep! sleep! sleep!
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Forgetting insane things of the mixed world outside
Relax my little one, feel the gentle breeze,
Do not worry about tomorrow, do not weep,
Wake up fresh in the morn with a recuperated mind,
Fresh and blessed with a wonderful sleep,
SLEEP, SLEEP, SLEEP!
LULLABY
By Horace Smith
Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
All will be sleeping by and by.
Sleep, little baby, sleep.
Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
Slowly the moon comes sailing by.
Sleep, little baby, sleep.
Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
All will be waking by and by.
Sleep, little baby, sleep.
A Child's Sleep
Poem by Carol Ann Duffy, British Poet Laureate since May 2009
I stood at the edge of my child's sleep,
hearing her breathe;
although I could not enter there,
I could not leave.
Her sleep was a small wood,
perfumed with flowers;
dark, peaceful, scared,
acred in hours.
And she was the spirit that lives
in the heart of such woods;
without time, without history,
wordlessly good.
I spoke her name, a pebble dropped
in the still night,
and saw her stir, both open palms
cupping their soft light;
Then went to the window. The greater dark
outside the room
gazed back, maternal wise,
with its face of moon.
Japanese Lullaby
Eugene Field (1850-1895)
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,—
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—
Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping—
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"
Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
Lullaby
John Fuller (1937-)
Sleep little baby, clean as a nut,
Your fingers uncurl and your eyes are shut.
Your life was ours, which is with you.
Go on your journey. We go too.
The bat is flying round the house
Like an umbrella turned into a mouse.
The moon is astonished and so are the sheep:
Their bells have come to send you to sleep.
Oh be our rest, our hopeful start.
Turn your head to my beating heart.
Sleep little baby, clean as a nut,
Your fingers uncurl and you eyes are shut.
Young Night Thought
Robert Louis Stevenson
All night long, and every night
When my mamma puts out the light,
I see the people marching by,
As plain as day, before my eye.
Armies and emperors and kings,
All carrying different kinds of things,
And marching in so grand a way,
You never saw the like by day.
So fine a show was never seen
At the great circus on the green;
For every kind of beast and man
Is marching in that caravan.
At first they move a little slow,
But still the faster on they go.
And still beside them close I keep
Until we reach the town of sleep.
Bedtime
Allan Ahlberg
When I go upstairs to bed,
I usually give a loud cough.
This is to scare The Monster off.
When I come to my room,
I usually slam the door right back.
This is to squash The Man in Back
Who sometimes hides there.
Nor do I walk to the bed,
But usually run and jump instead.
This is to stop The Hand—
Which is under there all right—
From grabbing my ankles.
A Quiet poem
Carol Berge
Rockets.
My kid
sleeps. Head naked to
Things I tell him or omit.
He is seven; I begin
The next section of his life,
to define
how we exist together.
A radiance this night: how
explain independence,
countries or people, from or for
each other.
The loving, the war.
My neighbors
disagree on how to say ideas.
This summer, I feel it as forms of water,
I favor a river,
moving,
and something like trout-fishing,
with flies, almost lures;
the colorful, the agile and alert
eyes and feet,
rather than small in huge seas,
dropping the line in,
the yes lead sinker,
thump, wait till some
flounder with its both eyes up toward sun
takes the hook, pull in
perhaps two on a double hook,
ten an hour.
Too goddam easy an ocean.
So I tell the child
how foolish, this
naming of enemies, since
in the next seven years,
or wheelturn, that man will be
his friend.
Radiance,
rather than glare, and
for gods’ sake, an eye on
each side of the head, quick iridescence
of motion, and the
head
naked to love.
Solitude
Lewis Carroll
I love the stillness of the wood:
I love the music of the rill:
I love to couch in pensive mood
Upon some silent hill.
Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees,
The silver-crested ripples pass;
And, like a mimic brook, the breeze
Whispers among the grass.
Here from the world I win release,
Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,
Break in to mar the holy peace
Of this great solitude.
Here may the silent tears I weep
Lull the vexed spirit into rest,
As infants sob themselves to sleep
Upon a mother’s breast.
But when the bitter hour is gone,
And the keen throbbing pangs are still,
Oh, sweetest then to couch alone
Upon some silent hill!
To live in joys that once have been,
To put the cold world out of sight,
And deck life’s drear and barren scene
With hues of rainbow-light.
For what to man the gift of breath,
If sorrow be his lot below;
If all the day that ends in death
Be dark with clouds of woe?
Shall the poor transport of an hour
Repay long years of score distress—
The fragrance of a lonely flower
Make glad the wilderness?
Ye golden hours of Life’s young spring,
Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright, beyond all imagining,
Thou fairy-dream of youth!
I’d give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life’s decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer-day.
The Moon
Robert Louis Stevenson
The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;
She shines on thieves on the garden wall,
On streets and fields and harbour quays,
and birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.
The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,
All love to be out by the light of the moon.
But all of the things that belong to the day
Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way;
And flowers and children close their eyes
Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.
Bed-time
Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine Earl of Rosslyn
Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid “Good-night,
God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all,”
Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall,
Another minute you will shut them quite.
Yes, I will carry you, put out the light,
And tuck you up, although you are so tall!
What will you give me, Sleepy One, and call
My wages, if I settle you all right?
I laid her golden curls upon my arm,
I drew her little feet with in my hand,
Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss,
Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm;
She nestled to me, and, by Love’s command,
Paid me my precious wages—“Baby’s kiss.”
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