Sleep like the veranda of a country housespreads before you a forest and shadowsand the interior of memories.eep is the mind free of constraint,_
_ the proud capital of poetry and plays,
sleep is a thought not yet embodied,
fed meagerly by jealous waking.
Sleep is Assyria, severe and valiant.
Sleep is Tuscany seen at dawn,
when slim trees sip ink
from the black earth—and a city,
which breathes through long cigarettes of sorrow.
Sleep visits hospitals and prisons,
comforts the afflicted
like a pure-hearted nun;
sleep wanes, exhausted;
it dies lightly, like Norwid,
without grief or heirs.