William Wordsworth
(Eg har googla "insomnia+poem" i håp å i alle fall finne noko spennande å lese på internettet sidan eg ikkje søv)
Eg veit ikkje når dette diktet blei skrive, men Wordsworth døydde jo i 1850. Dette diktet reiser eit spørsmål hos meg: Kor lenge har folk talt sauar, når dei ikkje får sove? Og kor kjem denne saueteljinga frå?
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear tonight away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
