Poetry Archives

’Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,
  And all is silence—in the hour of sleep;
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
  In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.
I wake alone to listen and to weep,
  To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn;
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
  To think of days that never can return.
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
  My eye surveys the solitary gloom;
And the sad meaning tear, unmix’d with dread,
  Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.
Like thee I wane;—like thine my life’s last ray
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.