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Sour Grapes (1921)
William Carlos Williams

A Goodnight

    Go to sleep--though of course you will not--
    to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
    strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
    dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
    scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
    car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust
    broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
    the 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-white
    for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
    chill 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 loosen
    and 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 the lonely church doors--
    sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
    the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
    message, to have in at your window. Pay no
    heed to him. He storms at your sill with
    cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
    You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
    He would have you sit under your desk lamp
    brooding, pondering; he would have you
    slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
    and 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 is
    a crackbrained messenger.

    The maid waking you in the morning
    when you are up and dressing,
    the rustle of your clothes as you raise them--
    it is the same tune.
    At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
    on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
    your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

    The open street-door lets in the breath of
    the 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 of
    the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
    with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
    And the night passes--and never passes--


Public domain text taken from The Poets’ Corner:

CST Approved.

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