Night

It would be nice to sleep, to dream
to succour Morpheus' deep embrace.
Sing choirs of angels take this beam,
take it from my face.

Use it in your building works,
this moat of bliss entrenched,
light me 'cross into its chalks,
the mount of sleep embraced.

Until such time I will await,
in state of grace misplaced,
in an ever and enduring state,
that mythic fate ungraced.