The book is closed and sleep has come
	  To lie beside me as I lay
	  Thoughtless at the end of thoughtless day,
A blessing of oblivion.

I dropped the book that had told me: read,
	  That had made a wonted offer
	  As if neither knew the better:
Knowledge is sorrow, living or dead.

The mind too worn by day's report,
	  The day too wronged by mind's own war,
	  Apprehensions made real by fears
That had lain still in latent thought

Now wild as waking woes
	  Ascend to startle sleep itself
	  And mold from nothing nightmare's self;
With silent step they come by ones:

Wind at the casement inks with creaks
	 What I had kept in lightest sketch,
	 Through all the day of 'do' and 'fetch'-
Wind at the casement makes bold and bleak.

Pale and leery, alone in bed;
	 Alone in bed, pale and leery,
	 Unawake and lively-weary,
I hear a tune that tums with dread.

The untended hurt, pushed away
	 By strong strife of mind all day
	 Tweaks and twinges as I lay;
A small voice says what it has to say.

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Poems in pieces

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