A GOODNIGHT
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o to sleep--though of course you will not--to tideless waves thundering slantwise againststrong embankments, rattle and swish of spraydashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steadycar rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gustbroken by the wind; calculating wings set abovethe field of waves breaking.Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-whitefor the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wildchill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices--sleep, sleep.... Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings--lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:it is all to put you to sleep,to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosenand fall over your eyes and over your mouth,brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,sleep and dream-- A black fungus springs out about lonely church doors--sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down uponthe wet boulevard, would start you awake with hismessage, to have in at your window. Pay noheed to him. He storms at your sill withcooings, with gesticulations, curses!You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.He would have you sit under your desk lampbrooding, pondering; he would have youslide out the drawer, take up the ornamented daggerand handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen--go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he isa crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morningwhen you are up and dressing,the rustle of your clothes as you raise them--it is the same tune.At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juiceon the tongue, the clink of the spoon inyour coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath ofthe morning wind from over the lake.The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes--lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,the movement of the troubled coat beside you--sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep....It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor ofthe moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packedwith dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.And the night passes--and never passes--
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