Classic Poem

The night is long, for I cannot sleep.
No midnight sorrow makes me weep,
But I " count a hundred " and then " count two, "
And no sort of use — for its wild tattoo
My pulse keeps beating. There must be
Something uncommon that's ailing me.

There's a rush and a tramp through my throbbing brain;
Such wonderful thoughts — in endless train —
Come in crowds, and, link into link,
They tangle so, while I think and think!
Now they march to some doleful rhyme,
And then with dizzying step keep time.

How loud the clock goes! tick, and tick,
With a little ring after every click;
And now it strikes — the hour is one —
Ah me, what a dolefully solemn tone!
Strange as it seems, I truly say
That I haven't heard it before, to-day.

There's a cricket singing shrill and long —
Was ever a cricket with voice so strong?
Without, the night is deep and still;
The owl is not hooting on the hill,
No low of kine, no bleat of flock,
Only the cricket, and ticking clock!

The moon pours in with a cold white gleam
Through the window panes, a steady stream;
Slowly, slowly, it crosses the floor,
And lies in white at the farther door,
I fancy a ghost with silent feet
Crossing the room in a winding sheet!

Oh, blessings priceless, Night and Sleep!
Did never close the eyes that weep —
In the weary brain, where thoughts are ground,
Did a ceaseless wheel go round and round
With never a pause for sleep — Ah me,
How wearily long one's life would be!

The clock strikes three, and then ticks lower;
The feverish thoughts come slow, and slower;
My pulses fall to temperate time;
Drowsily floats the lazy rhyme;
Soothing visions my senses steep —
I think — I think — I'm going to sleep.