Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.

Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,

I watch her softly blowing out the light.

Motionless sitting, neither left or right

She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.

She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.

So, with the laurel she is garlanded.

Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide

Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows… then silence. I am fain

To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,

Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

~*Katherine Mansfield*~