The Night Watch

Beneath the midnight moon of May,   Through dusk on either hand, One sheet of silver spreads the bay,   One crescent jet the land; The black ships mirrored in the stream   Their ghostly tresses shake— When will the dead world cease to dream?   When will the morning break? Beneath a night no longer May,   Where only cold stars shine, One glimmering ocean spreads away   This haunted life of mine; And, shattered on the frozen shore,   My harp can never wake— When will this night of death be o’er?   When will the morning break?