What woeful midnight grips the core of most sincere rememberance
When every child deaf and blind is twice consumed by ignorance?
The fearful face of moonlight's grace a dismal night doth know
When all about the dreary land doth drape a dreary snow,
Eke so ought grace despair the damned and dismal drought below,
For sake the fare of hope's repair when moonlight sets aglow
A most behooved and proper place, the lot of men of mirth:
A place descried by poets wise as desperation's berth.
Of this the song of bards oft sings, as merrily as mournful;
For this the scepter kept of kings is oft regarded scornful.
And so the mortal men of mirth misgive their might's misfortunes,
The oceans' wells are filled with tears of midnight in her portions
Of all the snows of ages past, the chilling drear of moonlight,
And so is cast the shadow last of fate upon man's foresight.