5 Total Quotes

Insomnia Quotes

William Shakespeare
O sleep, O gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, that thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness?
William Shakespeare
#Insomnia

Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.
E. M. Cioran
#Insomnia

Elizabeth Bishop
The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself, but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or perhaps she's a daytime sleeper. By the Universe deserted, she'd tell it to go to hell, and she'd find a body of water, or a mirror, on which to dwell. So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me.
Elizabeth Bishop
#Insomnia

Maya Angelou
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win its service to my side are useless as wounded pride, and much more painful.
Maya Angelou
#Insomnia

Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try; Since twelve I haven't closed an eye, And now it's three, and as I lie, From Notre Dame to St. Denis The bells of Paris chime to me; "You're young," they say, "and strong and free." I do not turn with sighs and groans To ease my limbs, to rest my bones, As if my bed were stuffed with stones, No peevish murmur tips my tongue -- Ah no! for every sound upflung Says: "Lad, you're free and strong and young." And so beneath the sheet's caress My body purrs with happiness; Joy bubbles in my veins. . . . Ah yes, My very blood that leaps along Is chiming in a joyous song, Because I'm young and free and strong. Maybe it is the springtide. I am so happy I am afraid. The sense of living fills me with exultation. I want to sing, to dance; I am dithyrambic with delight. I think the moon must be to blame: It fills the room with fairy flame; It paints the wall, it seems to pour A dappled flood upon the floor. I rise and through the window stare . . . Ye gods! how marvelously fair! From Montrouge to the Martyr's Hill, A silver city rapt and still; Dim, drowsy deeps of opal haze, And spire and dome in diamond blaze; The little lisping leaves of spring Like sequins softly glimmering; Each roof a plaque of argent sheen, A gauzy gulf the space between; Each chimney-top a thing of grace, Where merry moonbeams prank and chase; And all that sordid was and mean, Just Beauty, deathless and serene. O magic city of a dream! From glory unto glory gleam; And I will gaze and pity those Who on their pillows drowse and doze . . . And as I've nothing else to do, Of tea I'll make a rousing brew, And coax my pipes until they croon, And chant a ditty to the moon. There! my tea is black and strong. Inspiration comes with every sip. Now for the moon. The moon peeped out behind the hill As yellow as an apricot; Then up and up it climbed until Into the sky it fairly got; The sky was vast and violet; The poor moon seemed to faint in fright, And pale it grew and paler yet, Like fine old silver, rinsed and bright. And yet it climbed so bravely on Until it mounted heaven-high; Then earthward it serenely shone, A silver sovereign of the sky, A bland sultana of the night, Surveying realms of lily light.
Robert Service
#Insomnia