In Time Of War

SORROW, that watches while the body sleeps, Parted the curtains of the cruel dawn And glided noiselessly to her sad seat Beside my pillow.—'Art thou there,' I muttered, 'Spirit of silent grief; mute prophetess That, on the marble furrows of thy brow, Wearest the print of wisdom and of peace? Art thou still at my side, thou antique nurse And sybil of the mind,—who easily Enterest the prisons of humanity With footfall soft, and walkest in the glooms Where none save thee may come? Shield me to-day! And, when the sun's insufferable finger Moves o'er the wainscot, and his dreaded ray Sears the unsheathèd soul, O mighty Spirit, Darken mine eyes till night be come again!'