15 Great Poems About Sleep

For artists and poets, sleep is a frequent muse. There’s so much mystery, elegance, fragility, and fear bound up within our nightly repose. It’s no surprise sleep sparks the poetic imagination. So on the occasion of the release of my book, The Wisdom of Sleep, I thought I would list some of my favorite poems—or snippets of poems—related to sleep and rest. There are so many good ones, but these are just a few I love.

From “Hymn Before Sleep,” Prudentius

The hour of rest approaches,
The toils of day are past,
And o'er our tired bodies
Sleep's gentle charm is cast.

The mind, by cares tormented
Amid life's storm and stress,
Drinks deep the wondrous potion
That brings forgetfulness.

O’er weary, toil-worn mortals
The spells of Lethe steal;
Sad hearts lose all their sorrow,
Nor pain nor anguish feel.

For to His frail creation
God gave this law to keep,
That labour should be lightened
By soft and healing sleep.

From Shakespeare’s Macbeth

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

“The Pulley,” George Herbert

When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
“Let us,” said he, “pour on him all we can.
Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.”

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

“For if I should,” said he,
“Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

“Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.”

“An Evening Hymn,” Thomas Ken

All praise to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light!
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath Thine own almighty wings.

Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done,
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed.
Teach me to die, that so I may
Rise glorious at the judgment day.

O may my soul on Thee repose,
And with sweet sleep mine eyelids close,
Sleep that may me more vigorous make
To serve my God when I awake.

When in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.

O when shall I, in endless day,
For ever chase dark sleep away,
And hymns divine with angels sing,
All praise to thee, eternal King?

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

“To Sleep,” John Keats

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
      Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
      Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
      In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the “Amen,” ere thy poppy throws
      Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
      Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
      Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

“Sleep is supposed to be,” Emily Dickinson

Sleep is supposed to be
By souls of sanity
The shutting of the eye.

Sleep is the station grand
Down which, on either hand
The hosts of witness stand!

Morn is supposed to be
By people of degree
The breaking of the Day.

Morning has not occurred!

That shall Aurora be—
East of Eternity—
One with the banner gay—
One in the red array—
That is the break of Day!

From “The Complaint: or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality,” Edward Young

By Nature’s law, what may be, may be now;
There’s no prerogative in human hours:
In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,
Than man's presumption on tomorrow's dawn?
Where is tomorrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant we build
Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes,
As we the fatal sisters would outspin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud;
Nor had he cause, a warning was denied;
How many fall as sudden, not as safe?
As sudden, though for years admonished home:
Of human ills the last extreme beware,
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow-sudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate surprise?
Be wise today, ’tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life:
Procrastination is the thief of time,
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That ’tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born:
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applauds;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead?
Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;
Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom to do more:
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage: when young, indeed,
In full content, we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise:
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves, and re-resolves: then dies the same.

From The Portal of the Mystery of Hope, Charles Péguy

I don’t like the man who doesn’t sleep, says God.
Sleep is the friend of man.
Sleep is the friend of God.
Sleep may be my most beautiful creation.

(more here)

From “Oda a la Cama” (“Ode to the Bed”), Pablo Nerudo

We go from one bed to the next
in this journey,
life’s journey.
The newborn, the afflicted,
the dying,
the lover and the dreamer alike
they arrived and they will depart by the bed.

“Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota,” James Wright

Read poem at Poetry Foundation

“The Peace of Wild Things,” Wendell Berry

Read poem at On Being

“The Seed Is In the Ground,” Wendell Berry

The seed is in the ground.
Now we may rest in hope
While darkness does its work.

“Pillow,” Li-Young Lee (from his collection, Book of My Nights)

Read poem at poets.org.

“Blessing and Rest,” Malcolm Guite

Read poem at Malcolm’s blog

“Every Night,” Mischa Willett (from his 2026 collection, This Gift Card Has Already Been Redeemed, used with permission)

The little ship of my sleep leaves
the dock late, having been tied up
too long on whether to set out
in such weather, and to soggy pilings.

When finally released, she
knows there’s speed to be
made up: distance lost
and the cargo deep, and so creaks
under the labor
she should have left like shipmen
on the dock.
And we cross.
And it’s terrifying.
And it’s too-late o’clock.