Asleep With my Eyes Open

The sky, framed within the old sashes,

Is painted by someone rather slapdash,

Whose palette was not truly clean,

And yet it is so complicated and perfectly itself;

Though the clouds resemble both bruises and ‘Germolene’,

That it speaks of endless time,
And the beauty of the world to my sleeping brain,

So that I am suffused with an intense sense
Of how interesting it all is.

And the greying wood of the shutters,

And the faded green damask of the curtains,

Are one, in the sight of my mind's open, sleeping eyes,
With the wet May garden,

And the warm heaviness of limbs.