The man who writes the history of sleep

May not come drowsy to his task and book,

But watch by day and wait by night to keep

In words alive the lives that slumber took.

Shall he say of kings, they had bad dreams at night?

Shall he speak of long naps under trees at noon?

He must. And of children crying out in fright.

And young girls wakened by the rising moon.

Then he must say again what Shakespeare said,

That sleep knits up the ravell'd sheave of care;

That there'll be sleep enough when we are dead,

Yet for himself until that time forswear.

He must write of nightmare now, and drumming rain

On country roofs, and death asleep in snow.

Sleep after love, or after noise, or pain,

Are chapter-names that all his readers know.

At the final page, before he drops his pen,

Let him recall the old proverbial rule,

And write it down: Six hours of sleep for men.

For women seven hours. And eight for a fool.