The Sleeper

By Dwight L. Clarke

(George Sterling—November 1926)

For one who lies in slumber on an eve
When every happy thing with life is warm
For such should we feel pity? Should we grieve
That eyes and ears and nostrils do perform
Their wonted tasks no longer; that the air,
So vibrant with a music of its own,
Caressing, finds the sleeper unaware?
Nay, rather should we leave our friend alone,
Attended by the concourse of the spheres
And envy him that mantling time with grace
As tender shed as any mother's tears,
Enwrapping him, draw peace across his face.
For that dark nurse who touched his brown the last
But lifted crushing weights from off his soul;
The infinite he groped for in the past
Become the common trappings of his goal.

The Bookman, a Review of Books and Life, November 1927, 66, 3, Pg. 274.