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languour

When you are comfortably tired, sometimes the best thing to do is hold out just long enough to enjoy it. Fight just hard enough to know you're losing the battle. Prepare yourself for voluptuous surrender.
L/006

One of the few lost volumes of the great H&N library is one I found years before we met. It had an intriguing title along the lines of Unpublished Poems of 1930, and contained some promising work. Read this out loud to yourself and see if you can stay awake till the last line …

Darken the room, and fill the urns with flowers.
Filter stray light through curtains gently stirred.
Sweeten the white smooth linen and the floor
with water and with herbs. Let naught be heard
but sea, cicada, and far wings that hover.
Then heap your clothes neatly behind the door
and stetch your limbs upon the clean fresh cover.
Sleep not awhile but listen half-away
to this tired sleepy world sinking to sleep.
Sinking to deams of coolness as if night
were star-awakened in the midst of day.
And dream your morning pleasures not too deep,
drifting with easy motion on their tide,
on disks of sunlight and the swarms of sails,
parasols, flags, churned water, and the side
of each lithe swimming kerchiefed coffee girl,
the villa-peppered hillside brushed with light,
and the far backs of mountains soft with pearl.
Mingle their spice and circumstance in your brain
till all you dreamed you saw returns again
transmiuted in that alchemy of sleep
already close upon you. Then fill your eyes
with all imaginable indolence,
drawn from the luxury of drawn-out limbs,
and close your lids upon it, till there rise
wonder which wonders not, thought's deepest sense,
the cool and mazy courts of those first dreams
within which Time is shadow to the hours.