Bleak is the night and long
While slumber waits apart,
Refusing this lone heart,
These lips forlorn of song.

Deep is the night and slow
Whose gulf obscurely swarms
Mad, somber, faceless forms,
Blind masks of bale and woe.

The moon's late-risen ray
Through paling panes is shed. . . .
From dreams uncomforted
I rouse before the day.

Now, ere the morning break,
Would that my head found rest
Upon thy halcyon breast
To sleep, and not to wake.