The speaker stands awake in early morning London, noticing the rough jolt of market carts and the steady clop of horses on hard pavement. The sky is black but lacquered with a thin blue, and the lights of Battersea Bridge look pale and sharp in the coming dawn. These details create a hushed, suspended mood—night is ending, but day hasn’t fully arrived. Then the speaker turns to a sleeping beloved and says the beautiful hours are passing while they sleep, curled into their dreams. There is tenderness here, but also quiet frustration: time is slipping away, the day is arriving, and the speaker still hasn’t been let in—emotionally, and perhaps literally. The poem feels intimate and lonely, full of longing for a connection that hasn’t yet opened.
Wakefulness — Summary
Jolt of market-carts ; Steady drip of horses' hoofs on hard pavement ; A black sky lacquered over with blueness, And the lights of Battersea Bridge Pricking pale in the dawn.
The beautiful hours are passing And still you sleep ! Tired heart of my joy. Incurved upon your dreams. Will the day come before you have opened to me ?