Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the Judge will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

They beams so reverend, and strong
Why should’st thou think? 
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose his sight so long.
If his eyes have not blinded yours,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th’Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with us.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, “ALL HERE IN ONE BED LAY.”

He’s all states, and all princes I;
NOTHING ELSE IS;
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, are half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
His age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
THIS BED THY CENTRE IS, these walls thy sphere.

John Donne adapted by a son for his father, in a hospital bed, in intensive care.

…the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravel’d sleave 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

Macbeth

Picture reblogged from youareanobject: alphamale: sleeping+beauty.jpg (image)

hardcorejudas:

thesoftmachine:

liquidnight:

Robert and Shana Parkeharrison - Forestbed - from The Architect’s Brother

“But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.”