top of page

I Sleep the Clock Round[1]

The Waking have one Common World but the

Sleeping turn aside each into a World of its Own[2]

Sleep is no longer a Healing Bath – a Recuperation of Vital

Forces – but an Oblivion, a Nightly brush with Annihilation[3]

We, returning from the Vaulted Domes of our Colossal Sleep, come home to

Find a tall Metropolis of Catacombs erected down the Gangways of our Mind[4]

Let stil Silence trew Night-Watches keepe, that Sacred Peace may in assurance Rayne, and

Tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to Sleepe, may poure his limbs forth on your Pleasant Playne[5]

Let Placid Slumbers soothe each Weary Mind, at morn to Wake more Heav’nly, more Refin’d …

Night’s Leaden Sceptre seals my Drowsy eyes, then Cease, my song – til fair Aurora Rise[6]

When a Man Sleeps, he becomes United with the True – he is Gone to his Own Self[7]

Before you are Emptied for Sleep, What are you? – And when you are Emptied

For Sleep, you are Not – and when you are Filled with Sleep, you Never Were[8]

Sleep, the All-Involving, cannot confine her Spectres within the Dim

Region of her Sway – but Suffers them to Break Forth – Affrighting

This actual life with Secrets that perchance belong to a Deeper one[9]

Tired Children Placid Sleep – thro’ Centuries of Noon[10]

[1] C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

[2] Heraclitus, quoted by Philip Whalen in Sourdough Mountain Lookout

[3] J.M. Coetzee, Waiting for the Barbarians

[4] Sylvia Plath, Dooms of Exile

[5] Edmund Spenser, Epithalamion

[6] Phillis Wheatley, An Hymn to the Evening

[7] Chandogya-Upanishad 6.8.1

[8] William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

[9] Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Birthmark

[10] Emily Dickinson, Where Bells No More Affright the Morn

bottom of page