XCIX. When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

WHEN far-spent night persuades each mortal eye,

To whom nor art nor nature granteth light;

To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight,

Closed with their quivers, in sleep’s armoury:

With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,

Viewing the shape of darkness and delight;

Takes in that sad hue, which with th’inward night

Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.

But when birds charm, and that sweet air which is

Morn’s messenger, with rose-enamelled skies,

Call each wight to salute the hour of bliss;

In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes:

Forced by their lord; who is ashamed to find

Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind.