Sleeplessness

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by

One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;—

I ’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie

Sleepless; and soon the small birds’ melodies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees,

And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,

And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth:

So do not let me wear to-night away;

Without thee what is all the morning’s wealth?

Come, blessèd barrier between day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!