When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye,

To whom nor art nor nature granteth light,

To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight,

Closed with their quivers, in sleep’s armoury:

With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,

Viewing the shape of darkness and delight;

Takes in that sad hue, which with th’inward night

Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.

But when birds charm, and that sweet air, which is

Morn’s messenger, with rose-enameled skies,

Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss:

In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes,

Forced by their lord, who is ashamed to find

Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind.