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Sleep
I
sing
--
I
,
who
am
unmelodious
and
hear
no
music
save
rustic
music
when
a
dog
barks
,
a
bell
tinkles
,
or
wheels
crunch
upon
the
gravel
.
I
sing
my
song
by
the
fire
like
an
old
shell
murmuring
on
the
beach
.
Sleep
,
sleep
,
I
say
,
warning
off
with
my
voice
all
who
rattle
milk-cans
,
fire
at
rooks
,
shoot
rabbits
,
or
in
any
way
bring
the
shock
of
destruction
near
this
wicker
cradle
,
laden
with
soft
limbs
,
curled
under
a
pink
coverlet
.
'
I
have
lost
my
indifference
,
my
blank
eyes
,
my
pear-shaped
eyes
that
saw
to
the
root
.
I
am
no
longer
January
,
May
or
any
other
season
,
but
am
all
spun
to
a
fine
thread
round
the
cradle
,
wrapping
in
a
cocoon
made
of
my
own
blood
the
delicate
limbs
of
my
baby
.
Sleep
,
I
say
,
and
feel
within
me
uprush
some
wilder
,
darker
violence
,
so
that
I
would
fell
down
with
one
blow
any
intruder
,
any
snatcher
,
who
should
break
into
this
room
and
wake
the
sleeper
.
'
I
pad
about
the
house
all
day
long
in
apron
and
slippers
,
like
my
mother
who
died
of
cancer
.
Whether
it
is
summer
,
whether
it
is
winter
,
I
no
longer
know
by
the
moor
grass
,
and
the
heath
flower
;
only
by
the
steam
on
the
window-pane
,
or
the
frost
on
the
window-pane
.
When
the
lark
peels
high
his
ring
of
sound
and
it
falls
through
the
air
like
an
apple
paring
,
I
stoop
;
I
feed
my
baby
.
I
,
who
used
to
walk
through
beech
woods
noting
the
jay
's
feather
turning
blue
as
it
falls
,
past
the
shepherd
and
the
tramp
,
who
stared
at
the
woman
squatted
beside
a
tilted
cart
in
a
ditch
,
go
from
room
to
room
with
a
duster
.
Sleep
,
I
say
,
desiring
sleep
to
fall
like
a
blanket
of
down
and
cover
these
weak
limbs
;
demanding
that
life
shall
sheathe
its
claws
and
gird
its
lightning
and
pass
by
,
making
of
my
own
body
a
hollow
,
a
warm
shelter
for
my
child
to
sleep
in
.
Sleep
,
I
say
,
sleep
.
Or
I
go
to
the
window
,
I
look
at
the
rook
's
high
nest
;
and
the
pear
tree
.
"
His
eyes
will
see
when
mine
are
shut
,
"
I
think
.
"
I
shall
go
mixed
with
them
beyond
my
body
and
shall
see
India
.
He
will
come
home
,
bringing
trophies
to
be
laid
at
my
feet
.
He
will
increase
my
possessions
.
"
'
But
I
never
rise
at
dawn
and
see
the
purple
drops
in
the
cabbage
leaves
;
the
red
drops
in
the
roses
.
I
do
not
watch
the
setter
nose
in
a
circle
,
or
lie
at
night
watching
the
leaves
hide
the
stars
and
the
stars
move
and
the
leaves
hang
still
.
The
butcher
calls
;
the
milk
has
to
be
stood
under
a
shade
lest
it
should
sour
.
'S
leep
,
I
say
,
sleep
,
as
the
kettle
boils
and
its
breath
comes
thicker
and
thicker
issuing
in
one
jet
from
the
spout
.
So
life
fills
my
veins
.
So
life
pours
through
my
limbs
.
So
I
am
driven
forward
,
till
I
could
cry
,
as
I
move
from
dawn
to
dusk
opening
and
shutting
,
"
No
more
.
I
am
glutted
with
natural
happiness
.
"
Yet
more
will
come
,
more
children
;
more
cradles
,
more
baskets
in
the
kitchen
and
hams
ripening
;
and
onions
glistening
;
and
more
beds
of
lettuce
and
potatoes
.
I
am
blown
like
a
leaf
by
the
gale
;
now
brushing
the
wet
grass
,
now
whirled
up
.
I
am
glutted
with
natural
happiness
;
and
wish
sometimes
that
the
fullness
would
pass
from
me
and
the
weight
of
the
sleeping
house
rise
,
when
we
sit
reading
,
and
I
stay
the
thread
at
the
eye
of
my
needle
.
The
lamp
kindles
a
fire
in
the
dark
pane
.
A
fire
burns
in
the
heart
of
the
ivy
.
I
see
a
lit-up
street
in
the
evergreens
.
I
hear
traffic
in
the
brush
of
the
wind
down
the
lane
,
and
broken
voices
,
and
laughter
,
and
Jinny
who
cries
as
the
door
opens
,
"
Come
!
Come
!
"
'
But
no
sound
breaks
the
silence
of
our
house
,
where
the
fields
sigh
close
to
the
door
.
The
wind
washes
through
the
elm
trees
;
a
moth
hits
the
lamp
;
a
cow
lows
;
a
crack
of
sound
starts
in
the
rafter
,
and
I
push
my
head
through
the
needle
and
murmur
,
"
Sleep
"
.
'
'N
ow
is
the
moment
,
'
said
Jinny
.
'N
ow
we
have
met
,
and
have
come
together
.
Now
let
us
talk
,
let
us
tell
stories
.
Who
is
he
?
Who
is
she
?
I
am
infinitely
curious
and
do
not
know
what
is
to
come
.
If
you
,
whom
I
meet
for
the
first
time
,
were
to
say
to
me
,
"
The
coach
starts
at
four
from
Piccadilly
,
"
I
would
not
stay
to
fling
a
few
necessaries
in
a
bandbox
,
but
would
come
at
once
.
'
Let
us
sit
here
under
the
cut
flowers
,
on
the
sofa
by
the
picture
.
Let
us
decorate
our
Christmas
tree
with
facts
and
again
with
facts
.
People
are
so
soon
gone
;
let
us
catch
them
.
That
man
there
,
by
the
cabinet
;
he
lives
you
say
,
surrounded
by
china
pots
.
Break
one
and
you
shatter
a
thousand
pounds
.
And
he
loved
a
girl
in
Rome
and
she
left
him
.
Hence
the
pots
,
old
junk
found
in
lodging-houses
or
dug
from
the
desert
sands
.
And
since
beauty
must
be
broken
daily
to
remain
beautiful
,
and
he
is
static
,
his
life
stagnates
in
a
china
sea
.
It
is
strange
though
;
for
once
as
a
young
man
,
he
sat
on
damp
ground
and
drank
rum
with
soldiers
.
