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