Sonnet Xxxix. To Night. From The Same.

I LOVE thee, mournful, sober-suited Night! When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind Will to the deaf cold elements complain, And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain, To sullen surges and the viewless wind. Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, I still enjoy thee--cheerless as thou art; For in thy quiet gloom the exhausted heart Is calm, though wretched; hopeless, yet resigned. While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, May reach--though lost on earth--the ear of Heaven!