Poetry and Sleep
Miscellaneous
A POISON TREE
William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning, glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.
A Rosebud by My Early Walk
Robert Burns
A rosebud by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorney stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o’dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rosebud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the Parent’s evening ray
That watch’d thy early morning.
BLESSING OF A PEACE-HEALING
Anonymous, 12th century
Deep peace I breathe into you,
O weariness, here:
O ache, here!
Deep peace, a soft white dove to you;
Deep peace, a quiet rain to you;
Deep peace, an ebbing wave to you;
Deep peace, red wind of the east to you;
Deep peace, grey wind of the west to you;
Deep peace, dark wind of the north to you;
Deep peace, blue wind of the south to you!
Deep peace, pure red of the flame to you;
Deep peace, pure white of the moon to you;
Deep peace, pure green of the grass to you;
Deep peace, pure brown of the earth to you;
Deep peace, pure grey of the dew to you;
Deep peace, pure blue of the sky to you!
Deep peace of the running wave to you,
Deep peace of the flowing air to you,
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you;
Deep peace of the sleeping stones to you,
Deep peace of the Yellow Shepherd to you,
Deep peace of the Wandering Shepherdess to you,
Deep peace of the Flock of Stars to you,
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you,
Deep peace from the heart of Mary to you,
And from Bridget of the Mantle,
Deep peace, deep peace!
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunted flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitted the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, chocking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watched the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil sick of skin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
SPELL OF SLEEP
Kathleen Raine
Let him be safe in sleep
As leaves folded together
As young birds under wings
As the unopened flower.
Let him be hidden in sleep
As islands under rain,
As mountains within their clouds,
As hill in the mantle of dusk.
Let him be free in sleep
As the flowing tides of the sea,
As the traveling wind on the moor,
As the journeying stars in space.
Let him be upheld in sleep
As a cloud at rest on the air,
As sea-wrack under the waves
When the flowing tide covers all
And the shells’ delicate lives
Open on the sea-floor.
Let him be healed in sleep
In the quiet waters of the night
In the mirroring pool of dreams
Where memory returns in peace,
Where the troubled spirit grows wise
And the heart is comforted.
SUMMER IS GONE
Anonymous, 9th century
My tidings for you: the stag bells,
Winter snows, summer is gone.
Wind high and cold, low the sun.
Short his course, sea running high.
Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone –
The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.
Cold has caught the wings of birds:
Season of ice-these are my tidings.
Sweet Afton
Robert Burns
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by the murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear;
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear; winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet Cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy chrystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet River, the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
The Land Where We Were Dreaming
Daniel Bedinger Lucas
Fair were our nation’s visions! Oh they were as grand
As ever floated out of Faerie land;
Children were we in simple faith,
But God-like children, whom, nor death,
Nor threat of danger drove from Honor’s path,
In the land where we were dreaming.
Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render,
As violets, our women pure and tender;
And when they spoke, their voice did thrill
Untill at eve, whip-poor-will;
At morn the mocking bird was mute and still,
In the land where we were dreaming.
And we had graves that covered more of glory,
Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story;
And in our dream we wore the thread
Of principles for which we had bled,
And suffered long our own immortal dead,
In the land where we were dreaming.
Though in our land we had both bond and free,
Both were content; and so God let them be;-
‘Till envy coveted our land,
And those fair fields our valor won;
But little recked we, for we still slept on,
In the land where we were dreaming.
Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild –
Red meteors flashed across our heaven’s field;
Crimson the Moon; between the Twins
Barbed arrows fly, and then begins
Such strife as when disorder’s Chaos reings
O’er the land where we were dreaming.
Down from her sunlit height smiled Liberty,
And waved her hand in sign of Victory –
The world approved, and everywhere,
Except where growled the Russian bear,
The brave, the good, the just gave us their prayer,
For the land where we were dreaming.
We fancied that a Government was ours –
We challenged place among world’s great powers;
We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission,
Until so lifelike grew our vision,
That he who dared to doubt but met derision
In the land where we were dreaming.
We lokked on high: a banner there was seen,
Whose field was blanched, and spotless in its sheen –
Chivalry’s cross its Union bears,
And vet’rans swearing by their scars
Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars
In the land where we were dreaming.
A hero came among us as we slept;
At first he knelt – then slowly rose and wept;
Then gathering up a thousand spears
He swept across the field of Mars;
Then bowed farewell and walked behind the stars –
From the land where we were dreaming.
We looked again; another figure still
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will –
Full of grandeur, clothed with power,
Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour
With stern, majestic sway – of strength a tower,
In the land where we were dreaming.
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God,
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,
Rome felt herself secure and free,
So ‘Richmond’s safe,’ we said, while we
Beheld a bronzed Hero – God-like Lee,
In the land where we were dreaming.
As wakes the soldier when alarum calls –
As wakes the mother when her infant falls –
As starts the traveller when around
His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound –
So woke our nation with a single bound
In the land where we were dreaming.
Woe! woe is me! The startled mothers cried –
While we have slept our noble sons have died!
Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad,
That all our glorious vision’s fled,
And left us nothing real but the dead,
In the land where we were dreaming.
And are they really dead, our martyred slain?
No, dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again
From every vale – from every height
On which they seemed to die for right –
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight
In the land where we were dreaming.
THE OLD COUNTRY
Katharine Tynan
As I go home at the end of the day, the old road,
Through the enchanted country full of my dreams,
By the dim hills, under the pellucid o’er-arching sky,
Home of the West, full of great clouds and the sunset,
Past the cattle that stand in rich grass to the knees,
It is not I who go home: it is not I.
Here is the turn we took, going home with my father,
The little feet of pony trotting fast,
Home by the winding lane full of music of water,
He and I, we were enough for each other;
Going home through the silver, the pearly twilight,
I content with my father, he with his daughter.
Magical country, full of memories and dreams,
My youth lies in the crevices of your hills;
Here in the silk of your grass by the edge of the meadows,
Every flower and leaf has its memories of you.
Home was home then and the people friendly,
And you and I going home in the lengthening shadows.
Now I go home no more, though the swift car glides,
Carries me fast through the dear, the heavenly country.
No one knows me, the cottages show strange faces,
They who were kindly, who bid me “God save You!” of yore,
They are gone, they are flown, and only the country’s the same,
And you sleeping so quietly under the grass.
THE SHADOW HOUSE OF LUGH
Anonymous, 8th century
Dream-fair, beside dream waters, it stands alone:
A winged though of Lugh made its corner stone:
A desire of his heart raised its walls on high,
And set its crystal windows to flaunt the sky.
Its doors of the white bronze are many and bright,
With wonderous carven pillars for his Love’s delight,
And its roof of the blue wings, the speckled red,
Is a flaming arc of beauty above her head.
Like a mountain through mist Lugh towers high,
The fiery-forked lightening is the glance of his eye,
His Countenance is noble as the Sun-god’s face –
The proudest chieftain he of a proud De Danaan race.
He bides there in peace now, his wars are all done –
He gave his hand to Balor when the death gate was won,
And for the strife-scarred heroes who wander in the shade,
His door lieth open, and rich feast is laid.
He hath no vexing memory of blood in slanting rain,
Of green spears in hedges on a battle plain;
But through the haunted quiet his Love’s silver words
Blow round him swift as wing-beats of enchanted birds.
A grey haunted wind is blowing in the hall,
And stirring through the shadowy spears upon the wall,
The drinking-horn goes around from shadowy lip to lip –
And about the golden methers shadowy fingers slip.
The Star of Beauty, she who queens it there;
Diademed, and wonderous long, her yellow hair.
Her eyes are twin-moons in a rose-sweet face,
And the fragrance of her presence fills all the place.
He plays for her pleasure on his harps gold wire
The laughter-tune that leaps along in trills of fire;
She hears the dancing feet of Sidhe where a white moon gleams,
And all her world is joy in the House of Dreams.
He plays for her soothing the Slumber-song:
Fine and faint as any dream it glides along:
She sleeps until the magic of his kiss shall rouse;
And all her world is quite in the Shadow-house.
His days glide to night, and his nights glide to days:
With circling of the amber mead, and feasting gay;
In the yellow of her hair his dreams lie curled,
And her arms make the rim of his rainbow world.
THE SLEEPY SENTINEL
Katherine Mansfield
Faithless the watch that I kept: now I have none to keep.
I was slain because I slept: now I am slain I sleep.
Let no man reproach me again; whatever watch is unkept –
I sleep because I am slain. They slew me because I slept.
TO L.H.B.(1894-1915)
Katherine Mansfield
Last night was the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
‘Don’t touch them: they are poisonous,’ I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
‘Don’t you remember? We called them Dead Man’s Bread!’
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where – where is the path of my dream for my eager feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands…
‘These are my body. Sister, take and eat.’
A Memory (From a sonnet-sequence)
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
Somewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept
Softly along the dim way to your room,
And found you sleeping in the quiet gloom,
And holiness about you as you slept.
I knelt there; till your waking fingers crept
About my head, and held it. I had rest
Unhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast.
I knelt a long time, still; nor even wept.
It was great wrong you did me; and for gain
Of that poor moment's kindliness, and ease,
And sleepy mother-comfort!
Child, you know
How easily love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true. And love that's wakened so
Takes all too long to lay asleep again.
The Call
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
Out of the nothingness of sleep,
The slow dreams of Eternity,
There was a thunder on the deep:
I came, because you called to me.
I broke the Night’s primeval bars,
I dared the old abysmal curse,
And flashed through ranks of frightened stars
Suddenly on the universe!
The eternal silences were broken;
Hell became Heaven as I passed. –
What shall I give you as a token,
A sign that we have met, at last?
I’ll break and forge the stars anew,
Shatter the heavens with a song;
Immortal in my love for you,
Because I love you, very strong.
Your mouth shall mock the old and wise,
Your laugh shall fill the world with flame,
I’ll write upon the shrinking skies
The scarlet splendour of your name,
Till Heaven cracks, and Hell thereunder
Dies in her ultimate mad fire,
And darkness falls, with scornful thunder,
On dreams of men and men’s desire.
Then only in the empty spaces,
Death, walking very silently,
Shall fear the glory of our faces
Through all the dark infinity.
So, clothed about with perfect love,
The eternal end shall find us one,
Alone above the Night, above
The dust of the dead gods, alone.
Day and Night
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
Through my heart's palace Thoughts unnumbered throng;
And there, most quiet and, as a child, most wise,
High-throned you sit, and gracious. All day long
Great Hopes gold-armoured, jester Fantasies,
And pilgrim Dreams, and little beggar Sighs,
Bow to your benediction, go their way.
And the grave jewelled courtier Memories
Worship and love and tend you, all the day.
But when I sleep, and all my thoughts go straying,
When the high session of the day is ended,
And darkness comes; then, with the waning light,
By lilied maidens on your way attended,
Proud from the wonted throne, superbly swaying,
You, like a queen, pass out into the night.
And On My Eyes Dark Sleep By Night
Michael Field (1846-1914)
Come, dark-eyed Sleep, thou child of Night,
Give me thy dreams, thy lies;
Lead through the horny portal white
The pleasure day denies.
O bring the kiss I could not take
From lips that would not give;
Bring me the heart I could not break,
The bliss for which I live.
I care not if I slumber blest
By fond delusion; nay,
Put me on Phaon's lips to rest,
And cheat the cruel day!
Sleepyheads
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
Sleep is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a muff waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies—a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing sucks the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
Variation On The Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood (1939-)
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Skye Boat Song
Robert Louis Stevenson
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
Mull was astern, Rum on the port,
Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul:
Where is that glory now?
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me that lad that’s gone!
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.
Waltzing Matilda
Andrew Barton Paterson
Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda,
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me:
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bad,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me:
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Up rode the squatter mounted one his thoroughbred,
Up rode the troopers, one, two, three.
“Where’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda,
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me:
“Where’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong,
“You’ll never take me alive!” said he.
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
“You’ll never take me alive!” said he.
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda,
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
“You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!”
In a Herber Green Asleep Whereas I Lay
R. Wever
In a herber green asleep whereas I lay,
The birds sang sweet in the midd{.e}s of the day;
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go;
But when I wak’d it was not so”
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Therefore my heart is surely pight
Of her alone to have a sight,
Which is my joy and heart’s delight:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
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