The day was eventful with nothing substantial. So homeward we went, full of sleep, past the creek and the field by the bandshell, the woods, the old ranch--all unwatching and deep. And you walked in your sleep. And the house was a beacon, the bridge at Camp Branch all the sound there. You'd speak and forget you had spoken: 'Tomorrow's the weekend. We'll sleep all the weekend.' And I quiet-smoked in a warm early graying, with me tired but woken and something like praying: Hey, peace to you. Keep me awake til you're dreaming, then lay me along you-- I'll sing you a song you'll remember in waking. The valley is gleaming; so peace to you, peace, counting sheep, me asleep. All is teeming with love in the world now, and aching, so peace until morning is breaking. The houses were empty, the dreamers all wandering wherever they dreamt. You were sprawled and unkempt in the bedclothes beside me. I wondered if I'd be content with a half-crazy girl to go idly down long leafy hallways, if there was redemption in fondness, in conjuring some life with you always. I don't know. I was sinking, and heard myself speaking the words you'd been saying: 'Tomorrow's the weekend'-- The day showed a streak, and you turned as you dreamt. We are grand, I was thinking. Gray daylight came playing On rooftops, the creek. And I knew I was praying. Or something like praying: Love, peace to you. Keep me asleep while you´re dreaming. But lay me against you, sleep-warm and untensed. You will see me in waking. The sun´s come up beaming; now peace to you. Peace, counting sheep, me alseep. All is teeming with life in the world now, and aching, so peace, for morning is breaking.