There are, I think, two forms of sleeplessness:
The fretting, turning, twisting, aged kind,
With night unending, dark and death rule all.
But then there is a sleeplessness that’s quiet,
Delicious, calm, composed. I lie awake
Like the lidless seraphim, who night and day
Sing to the God who slumbers not nor sleeps,
Like the sleeplessness of God Himself,
So full of life He cannot shut His eyes.
Or like a child who stands upon her bed,
And watches birds at naptime.
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