Unto love I return and thereupon I wallow;

Your fathomless bed is worth no doubt a glorious summit.

Chase from out my mind the squabbles of the shallow,

Since to suffer love, the angel doth me permit.

Keep your fair eyes open. Stay awake. For I fear

That arranged sleepfulness that takes you elsewhere.

You know how much evil has thought to cost me dear,

But when you sleep I think of worlds that are much better,

Where you breeze sans body, sans air, sans country mile,

And making from so far your lips to quiver stilly,

And from so far as well your face to smile,

That upon such signs as these, I could kill you.

Jean Cocteau