Silent. Sleep. Sweet passions’ dim repose.

And rest into the crimson skirts of night.

Slumber. Soon the bright has found her close.

And wakes upon the rise of heaven’s sway.

Crimson skirts of night. . .

What? What widow walks again?

And passes me?

And passes by a dream?

And curled up in the windowed breeze 

Of this his stilted light,

Who sleeps himself

To loose against the day?

Sweet widow, weep . ‘Tis passion’s dim repose.

Come rest within the hem, the skirts of night.

Sleep and every bright shall find her close.

But wakes upon the rise of heaven’s sway.

Brownstone