Sleep is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole--

Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care--

There is no malice in our slumber,

no evil in us sleeping.

She closes her eyes,

removes her sight from my world

and returns to that sun-fogged sea,

rides,

as if she were herself a buoy,

on the gentle sloping shores

of wave next wave next wave.

Warm, flecked, dappled sea;

Up, down, cradling herself

with prayer-hands on her cheek.

Out of port,

Forever severed 'til she wakes.

There is a grayness is our sleep

which makes uncertain age or year,

cuts out the heart of passion and of care;

yes, takes the very heart out of things

so we pump breath, life, the slow heave

and rhythm of tenderness--

but bloodless,

Calm, misted.

If she cries or rages I cannot ken.

She is Artemis, Adonis,

Venus and David.

Closed and close, forever far.

She is marble, immovable,

the marvel of serenity,

occupying that dark liquid space

where all figures remain fondly

inscrutable.

What goes there?

What wind, motion, stir or sigh,

love, hate,

release?

Yes, release indeed,

from all of these,

Thus I think this childhood is not to be irretrievably lost.