|
| SONNET 27 |
| Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, |
| The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; |
| But then begins a journey in my head, |
| To work my mind, when body's work's expired: |
| For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, |
| Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, |
| And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, |
| Looking on darkness which the blind do see |
| Save that my soul's imaginary sight |
| Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, |
| Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, |
| Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. |
| Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, |
| For thee and for myself no quiet find. |
Sign up for the 
