Lived On One'S Back, In The Long Hours Of Repose, Life Is A Practical Nightmare - Hideous Asleep Or Awake. Shoulders And Loins Ache - - -! Ache, And The Mattress, Run Into Boulders And Hummocks, Glows Like A Kiln, While The Bedclothes - Tumbling, Importunate, Daft - Ramble And Roll, And The Gas, Screwed To Its Lowermost, An Inevitable Atom Of Light, Haunts, And A Stertorous Sleeper Snores Me To Hate And Despair. All The Old Time Surges Malignant Before Me; Old Voices, Old Kisses, Old Songs Blossom Derisive About Me; While The New Days Pass Me In Endless Procession: A Pageant Of Shadows Silently, Leeringly Wending On . . . And Still On . . . Still On! Far In The Stillness A Cat Languishes Loudly. A Cinder Falls, And The Shadows Lurch To The Leap Of The Flame. The Next Man To Me Turns With A Moan; And The Snorer, The Drug Like A Rope At His Throat, Gasps, Gurgles, Snorts Himself Free, As The Night-Nurse, Noiseless And Strange, Her Bull'S Eye Half-Lanterned In Apron, (Whispering Me, 'Are Ye No Sleepin' Yet?'), Passes, List-Slippered And Peering, Round . . . And Is Gone. Sleep Comes At Last - Sleep Full Of Dreams And Misgivings - Broken With Brutal And Sordid Voices And Sounds That Impose On Me, Ere I Can Wake To It, The Unnatural, Intolerable Day.