THE hop—shop is shut up: the night doth wear. <br />Here, early, Collinson this evening fell <br />“Into the gulfs of sleep”; and Deverell <br />Has turned upon the pivot of his chair <br />The whole of this night long; and Hancock there <br />Has laboured to repeat, in accents screechy, <br />“Guardami ben, ben son, ben son Beatrice”; <br />And Bernhard Smith still beamed, serene and square. <br />By eight, the coffee was all drunk. At nine <br />We gave the cat some milk. Our talk did shelve, <br />Ere ten, to gasps and stupor. Helpless grief <br />Made, towards eleven, my inmost spirit pine, <br />Knowing North's hour. And Hancock, hard on twelve, <br />Showed an engraving of his bas-—relief.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/st-wagner-s-eve/
