Weary with toll. I haste me to my bed,
The dea repose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd:
For then my thoughts - from far where I abide -
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keepmy rooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darknesswhich the blind do see:
ave 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 I thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet find.
Shakespeare Sonnet
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