The Bookshelf

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;

But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd:

For them my thoughts (from far where I abide)

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking 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.