I am aweary of the tardy night.
The hungry moments rob me of delight,
The crawling minutes steal away my powers;
And I am sick at heart, as one who cowers,
In lonely haunts, remov'd from human sight.
XIV.
How shall I think the night was meant for sleep,
When I must count the dreadful hours thereof,
And cannot beat them down, or bid them doff
Their hateful masks? A man may wake and weep