THE SAD YEARS
THE HOURS OF ILLNESS
How slow creeps time! I hear the midnight chime,
And now late revellers prepare for sleep;
A last gay voice rings in a passing rhyme,
And past my door the anxious footsteps creep.
The little clocks from hidden places call,
'Tis one o'clock; downstairs the big clock's bell
Tolls deep, and then comes forth the merry chime,
Like laughing children calling, “All is well!”
'Tis two o'clock ! Why in the lonesome room
This creak and crack, if there be no one here?
Whose feet disturb the loose board of the floor?
Whose secret presence fills the dark with fear?
'Tis three o'clock! O God, when comes sweet rest?
To sleep, to sleep, within this sleeping house,
Where all could wake with less fatigue than I,
Where no one stirs save some adventurous mouse!
