The Poetry Corner

The Sonnets XXVII - Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed

By William Shakespeare

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tird; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when bodys works 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 souls 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.