Edward Hirsch writes in For the Sleepwalkers with a slight, somewhat self-conscious, formality, as if he wishes to hold his material in place by distancing himself from it. He achieves this formality—and it is an achievement—by following regular stanza patterns and metering stresses in a given line; in addition, he elevates his diction so that his poetry becomes, in the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins, "the common language heightened." Thus, he opens "Dusk":

      The sun is going down tonight
      like a wounded stag staggering through the brush
      with an enormous spike in its heart
      and a single moan in its lungs. There
 
      is a light the color of tarnished metal
      galloping at its side, and fresh blood
      is steaming through its throat. Listen!
      The waves, too, sound like the plunging
 
      of hooves, or a wild hart simply
      crumpling on the ground.

He ends this lovely poem...