Sonnet Xxvii

William Shakespeare

     Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
     The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
     But then begins a journey in my head,
     To work my mind, when body's work's 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 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! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
     For thee and for myself no quiet find.

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