To dream till doomsday, suddenly disclosed,
And woke their sleepers centuries too soon
To stare upon the old remember’d moon.
Wearied of darkness, I will see the day:
Sick of the dead, the living will assay:
And if the ghastly year I have gone through
Bear half its promised harvest, will requite
With a too warm good-morrow the long night
That one cold living heart consign’d me to.
Luc. Justina!