From broken visions of perturbed rest

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

How total a privation of all sounds,

Sight, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.

Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry

Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise

Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.

Those are the moanings of the dying man,

Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans.

And interrupted only by a cough

Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.

So in the bitterness of death he lies,

And waits in anguish for the mornings light.

What can that do for him, or what restore?

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