Classic Poem

When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye
(To whom nor Art nor Nature granteth light)
To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight,
Clos'd with their quivers, in sleep's armory,
With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,
Viewing the shape of darkness, and delight
Takes in that sad hue which with the inward night
Of his maz'd powers keeps perfect harmony.
But when birds charm and that sweet air which is
Morn's messenger, with rose-enamel'd skies
Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss,
In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forc'd by their lord, who is asham'd to find
Such light in sense, with such a darken'd mind.