Lying here with my back against a pillow,
As the night descends, a black a dreary billow,
My thoughts revolve and turn from old to new
Until they rest, at once, on you.
It is funny that I do not contemplate the mystery
Of this and every night;
I do not reflect on the duties of the day
Or what may come with morning's light.
I do not resign to restful thoughts of leaping sheep.
I do not listen to the quiet crickets cheep.
My thoughts are instantly ensnared by you—
Stolen so simply, without reason or rue.
And with a twinge of sorrow and thoughtful melancholy,
I remember that day so rife with such familiar folly—
That day and those memories which I cannot release,
That day and those memories which seem to never cease.
I know I should not dare arrive and creep
Upon these haunted accursed moors of sleep,
But I am lured into each hollow, hurting thought
And like a wandering rabbit, ensnared and caught.
Ah, the evening draws close with a chill and a bite,
As the colors just deepen into a lonesome night,
But I barely notice between the hours and thee,
For both of them have slipped away from me...