'Tis midnight! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath Of yew and cypress: the faint dirge of Death Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around. She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet, Points to the clinging clay upon her feet, And whispers tidings of the charnel-ground. Oh! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring These bitter emblems with thee! I can bear With all but these 'tis these, oh God! that wring And plunge my heart in maddening despair. Hence, for awhile, pale Melancholy; go! And let sweet slumber lull my weeping woe.
