One night I turned my lamp-wick down,
Dowsing the light, and in the dark
Prepared for sleep. But from the town
A murmur rose like surf to drown
My hopes of rest, and left me stark.
Too many thoughts had thronged my brain,
Making a fairground with their glare.
Too many feelings left their fstrain,
Too many melodies their pain;
And I, now void, could only stare.
Numbed as with shock, and pent by thought,
I in a trance stood by the bed;
Saw my prone self by prowler caught,
A gody left where men had fought,
Living yet numbered with the dead.
Spoirit of me, not yet returned,
Still was abroad; … then brightly leapt
The flame that on the lamp-wick burned…
Again my hand its spindle turned;
This time the dark was real. I slept.