Sonnet XXVII, by
William Shakespeare
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,
The dear
repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body's work's expired;
For then 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.
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