The placidity put me to sleep after I sat on the couch for a few minutes. Full night fell, and now the sky is full of cloud shapes that drift over and past the moon, now and then revealing a point of starlight in some limpid spot while the larger light is obscured. The entire sky seems alive. It is though I had kept sleeping and this was the dream I was having, but it is the waking world turned strange and abstract and amazing. Such light and darkness and shades of silver and deepest, dark blue. How prosaic the darkened earth becomes under such a skyscape. I am unable to recall from that place my adventuring thoughts. I must be as quiet as the nocturnal land.
Loss and Gain
by Geoffrey Hill
Pitched high above the shallows of the sea
lone bells in gritty belfries do not ring
but coil a far and inward echoing
out of the air that thrums. Enduringly,
fuchsia-hedges fend between cliff and sky;
brown stumps of headstones tamp into the ling
the ruined and the ruinously strong.
Platonic England grasps its tenantry
where wild-eyed poppies raddle tawny farms
and wild swans root in lily-clouded lakes.
Vulnerable to each other the twin forms
of sleep and waking touch the man who wakes
to sudden light, who thinks that this becalms
even the phantoms of untold mistakes.