Oh, tease me not, inviting bed,
For you are but a second wife
And should I stay with you instead,
I'll lose my first; I'll cease to write.

A meagre insect on the wall
Can coax a piece from inward out,
A single movement in the skies
Can prod a moon from 'neath a cloud.

When I'm surrounded, everywhere
By tiny realms of consciousness,
Entrancing me with their display,
And banishing my hopelessness;

And though I don't possess a clue
To whence they came, or where they're bound,
It's simpler to unleash my pen
Within this land of dampened sound.

And yes, you have your highs again-
For I would dwell in better skin
Did I not have these circles dark
Or feel fatigued and low within.

Alas, the night is almost done,
I'm miles ahead of reckoning-
You may excel at bringing rest
But none can peace, like writing bring.

I name this poem for you, O sleep-
Pray, take some rest as I begin.