SORROW, that watches while the body sleeps,
Parted the curtains of the cruel dawn
And glided noiselessly to her sad seat
Beside my pillow.—'Art thou there,' I muttered,
'Spirit of silent grief; mute prophetess
That, on the marble furrows of thy brow,
Wearest the print of wisdom and of peace?
Art thou still at my side, thou antique nurse
And sybil of the mind,—who easily
Enterest the prisons of humanity
With footfall soft, and walkest in the glooms
Where none save thee may come? Shield me to-day!
And, when the sun's insufferable finger
Moves o'er the wainscot, and his dreaded ray
Sears the unsheathèd soul, O mighty Spirit,
Darken mine eyes till night be come again!'