The Night Watch

Beneath the midnight moon of May, Through dusk on either hand, One sheet of silver spreads the bay, One crescent jet the land; The black ships mirrored in the stream Their ghostly tresses shake— When will the dead world cease to dream? When will the morning break? Beneath a night no longer May, Where only cold stars shine, One glimmering ocean spreads away This haunted life of mine; And, shattered on the frozen shore, My harp can never wake— When will this night of death be o’er? When will the morning break?