Insomnia
by Marguerite Alvis Venable
The stars burned dim, and still I was awake,
Tossing on the bed, I scarce knew why.
Outside, the fainting rustle of the leaves,
The rim, but half-exposed, of hollow sky.
I turned upon the bed, and heard again
The warring voices in me screech and fret.
Their clamor was a painful thing to hear.
My eyelids stung, with bitter tears were wet.
The one beside me sighed and turned and slept,
At peace and all-content. I loved him well,
And manlike, could he know I writhed alone
Within my individual, private hell?
I turned again, I heard the branches stir.
I saw the waning night, the light grow vast;
I lay within the hollow of his arm
And sank into reposefulness at last.