Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.
For then my thoughts, (from far where I abide),
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to tee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Loking on darkness which the blind do see.
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.