Quotes About Sleep

All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

It was cold, and he was coughing. A fine cold draught blew over the knoll. He thought of the woman. Now he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity.

But his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then it was awful indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was ghastly, to exist without having any life: lifeless, in the night, to exist.

The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

It's only when the ghastly mob-sleep, the dream helplessness of the mass psyche overcomes him, that he becomes completely base and obscene

In sleep, you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No, work and love are the two. When you're not at work you should be in love.' 'Be

That was all her prayer—not for his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours, she thought and prayed for him.

To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort—to live effortless, a kind of conscious sleep—that is very beautiful, I think—that is our after-life-our immortality.

For each time we lie down to sleep we have within us a body of death which dies with the day that is spent.

Nights were the worst. I'd try to get some sleep, only to be thrown out of bed and dragged out into the compound for another game of Let's whack Bobby in the dark! - Bobby Pendragon, RoZ

Relaxation and Recreation The most relaxing recreating forces are a healthy religion, sleep, music, and laughter. Have faith in God—learn to sleep well— Love good music—see the funny side of life— And health and happiness will be yours.

The most relaxing recreating forces are healthy religion, sleep, music, and laughter. Have faith in God—learn to sleep well— Love good music—see the funny side of life— And health and happiness will be yours.

At night the years come back and perch around my bed like ghosts.

The drowsiness returns. It is unwelcome. I recognize it as the sort of fitful twilight which has come over me of late, a twilight where waking dreams are dreamed and sleep never comes.

Whenever I feel myself sinking into a deep sleep, something always recalls me: "Not so fast now. Suppose you should go to sleep and it should happen. What then?" Clearly nothing. Yet there I lie, wakeful and watchful as a sentry, ears tuned to the slightest noise.

Being in your mid-thirties brought benefits, I reminded myself. You began to appreciate tidiness, smallness, things in their place. This is the shape your life has taken, I said. Be existential. Go to sleep.

That night I lay in bed with the evening's images spinning before me. I felt energized, as if electrical current were passing through me. Sleep was impossible, I told myself, then dozed, lulled by all the answers to the question of why I was so sad.

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson     done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the     themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars. — Walt Whitman, "A Clear Midnight," Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.

The city sleeps and the country sleeps, The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife; And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son sleeps, The murderer that is to be hung next day, how does he sleep? And the murder'd person, how does he sleep?

is that the President? Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep