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Go to sleep—though of course you will not— 
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against 
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray 
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, 
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady 
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust 
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above 
the field of waves breaking. 
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, 
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! 
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white 
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild 
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— 
sleep, sleep . . . 
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. 
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, 
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— 
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, 
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: 
it is all to put you to sleep, 
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, 
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen 
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, 
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, 
sleep and dream— 

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— 
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon 
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his 
message, to have in at your window. Pay no 
heed to him. He storms at your sill with 
cooings, with gesticulations, curses! 
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. 
He would have you sit under your desk lamp 
brooding, pondering; he would have you 
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger 
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— 
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; 
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is 
a crackbrained messenger. 

The maid waking you in the morning 
when you are up and dressing, 
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— 
it is the same tune. 
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice 
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in 
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. 

The open street-door lets in the breath of 
the morning wind from over the lake. 
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— 
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, 
the movement of the troubled coat beside you— 
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . 
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of 
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed 
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. 
And the night passes—and never passes— 


Submitted by Bob

Added: 5 May 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:55 PM | Viewed: 12446 times

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