Insomnia

Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try;      Since twelve I haven't closed an eye,      And now it's three, and as I lie,      From Notre Dame to St. Denis      The bells of Paris chime to me;      "You're young," they say, "and strong and free."      I do not turn with sighs and groans      To ease my limbs, to rest my bones,      As if my bed were stuffed with stones,      No peevish murmur tips my tongue -      Ah no! for every sound upflung      Says: "Lad, you're free and strong and young."      And so beneath the sheet's caress      My body purrs with happiness;      Joy bubbles in my veins. . . . Ah yes,      My very blood that leaps along      Is chiming in a joyous song,      Because I'm young and free and strong.                    Maybe it is the springtide.     I am so happy I am afraid.     The sense of living fills me with exultation.     I want to sing, to dance;     I am dithyrambic with delight.      I think the moon must be to blame:      It fills the room with fairy flame;      It paints the wall, it seems to pour      A dappled flood upon the floor.      I rise and through the window stare . . .      Ye gods! how marvelously fair!      From Montrouge to the Martyr's Hill,      A silver city rapt and still;      Dim, drowsy deeps of opal haze,      And spire and dome in diamond blaze;      The little lisping leaves of spring      Like sequins softly glimmering;      Each roof a plaque of argent sheen,      A gauzy gulf the space between;      Each chimney-top a thing of grace,      Where merry moonbeams prank and chase;      And all that sordid was and mean,      Just Beauty, deathless and serene.      O magic city of a dream!      From glory unto glory gleam;      And I will gaze and pity those      Who on their pillows drowse and doze . . .      And as I've nothing else to do,      Of tea I'll make a rousing brew,      And coax my pipes until they croon,      And chant a ditty to the moon.     There! my tea is black and strong. Inspiration comes with every sip.     Now for the moon.      The moon peeped out behind the hill      As yellow as an apricot;      Then up and up it climbed until      Into the sky it fairly got;      The sky was vast and violet;      The poor moon seemed to faint in fright,      And pale it grew and paler yet,      Like fine old silver, rinsed and bright.      And yet it climbed so bravely on      Until it mounted heaven-high;      Then earthward it serenely shone,      A silver sovereign of the sky,      A bland sultana of the night,      Surveying realms of lily light.