FROM THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT

The City is of Night, but not of Sleep;
There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain;
The pitiless hours like years and ages creep
A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain
Of thought and consciousness which never ceases
Or which some moments' stupor but increases
This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.

They leave all hope behind who enter there:
One certitude while sane they cannot leave
One anodyne for torture and despair;
The certitude of Death, which no reprieve
Can put off long; and which, divinely tender
But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render
That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave