John Thatcher: ‘On sleep’

On Sleep

What is night but the blending,
Of all day’s smiles and tears.
And what is night but the promise,
Of unfolding future years.

And all creatures beneath man’s hand,
Find night the death of pain,
And flee the flight, the fear, the prize,
Ere they wake to fight again.

But Oh! How deep the minds own cavern,
That night reveals to man.
The impassioned torture and lust of life,
That sees no halting hand.

For here he lies in bright-lit night,
And alone counts his fears,
For love was here, now love has gone,
Leaving just the warmth of tears.

John Thatcher


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