The night—(I sing by night—sometimes an owl,

And now and then a nightingale)—is dim,

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl

Rattles around me her discordant hymn:

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl—

I wish to Heaven they would not look so grim;

The dying embers dwindle in the grate—

I think too that I have sat up too late: