Untitled II

What a ruinous thing is Sleep

That he should judge me unbecoming

For his soporific glance

And bereave me thus;

He stands himself before me

With his body turned askance

As though he watches merely

From the corner of his eyes.

And yet my presence, full in stance,

Grants nothing of his favor;

Am I nothing then? For what else

Is there if not Sleep? Some chance

Encounter with deceptive Dreams?

But none can recognize the fool

Unless they’ve known his trance.

 

The only gentleman, I fear, that sees,

Desires nothing less than permanence;

He is Death, the rape of sleep, the last romance.