It has been my habit of late,

And my mood it surely worsens,

To look up, and by cruel twist of fate

Realize I'm not the first person.

Respite is sought among the prose.

Ceres and Bacchus bid me good-night

That I might once on a midnight dreary dozeAnd be lost on the nightingale's fated flight.

Bitterness' hold again secure,

My thoughts tonight will be un-kind;

No man should be forced to endure

Being made prisoner to one's own mind

I behold, briefly, the bright side's gleam

And hope, tonight, to sleep another's dream