SILENTLY without my window, <br />Tapping gently at the pane, <br />Falls the rain. <br />Through the trees sighs the breeze <br />Like a soul in pain. <br />Here alone I sit and weep; <br />Thought hath banished sleep. <br />Wearily I sit and listen <br />To the water's ceaseless drip. <br />To my lip <br />Fate turns up the bitter cup, <br />Forcing me to sip; <br />'Tis a bitter, bitter drink, <br />Thus I sit and think, — <br />Thinking things unknown and awful, <br />Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes, <br />Waking dreams. <br />Spectres dark, corpses stark, <br />Show the gaping seams <br />Whence the cold and cruel knife <br />Stole away their life. <br />Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring, <br />Gazing ghastly into mine; <br />Blood like wine <br />On the brow — clotted now— <br />Shows death's dreadful sign. <br />Lonely vigil still I keep; <br />Would that I might sleep! <br />Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! <br />Still runs on my stream of thought; <br />I am caught <br />In the net fate hath set. <br />Mind and soul are brought <br />To destruction's very brink; <br />Yet I can but think! <br />Eyes that look into the future, — <br />Peeping forth from out my mind, <br />They will find <br />Some new weight, soon or late, <br />On my soul to bind, <br />Crushing all its courage out,— <br />Heavier than doubt. <br />Dawn, the Eastern monarch's daughter, <br />Rising from her dewy bed, <br />Lays her head <br />'Gainst the clouds' sombre shrouds <br />Now half fringed with red. <br />O'er the land she 'gins to peep; <br />Come, O gentle Sleep! <br />Hark! the morning cock is crowing; <br />Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away; <br />'Tis the day. <br />Rosy morn now is born; <br />Dark thoughts may not stay. <br />Day my brain from foes will keep; <br />Now, my soul, I sleep.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/melancholia-4/
