Why blame the day for what the night has
I am an animal, of mortal make.
And so it is that like the moon and sun,
I must in cycles turn, retire, awake,
Or suffer from a shadow of dejection
Which has no base in thought, no rational cause,
But is the body's transient reflection
Of its displeasure as its sovereign laws
Are bent and disobeyed. Can it surprise
Me that I wear this pall of weariness
Which tints with grey each sight before the eyes,
And fills the spirit with an emptiness?
Ah, Sleep, without you how my heart would pine;
You are the mother of my peace of mind!
George Chadderdon © 1994