MIDNIGHT
The night is dark and the place is lone,
The wind is weary and maketh moan,
The dank tree drips on the moss-covered stone,
And the brain is an ash when the spark has flown.
But the horror of Death is an ecstasy,
And the sweetest song is an elegy,
And the loveliest flowers in the world for me
Are the roses which bloom on the cypress-tree.