Classic Poem

Lie down, lie down on this impersonal bed,
Part rack, part table, lifted for the view
Of cold intelligent eyes. Perhaps the dead
Have earned the right to sleep more soft, but you
Are still alive, and yet no longer you.
A proving ground, a field of honor, or a name
In an unused record — it is much the same.

Over you in undulating waves shall pass
Conjecture and opinion, warmth and slow cold,
Noise far away, silence too close to hold,
And sleep as light as breath against a glass.

The strange inverted forms of day and night
Wheel slowly round you and resume their place.
The room is still; the wavering walls stand tight
Against the floor; the strength of pain is spent
And now at last you cling to this hard bed,
Become your refuge and your battlement.