The autumn night is dark and dense, The moonlight scarce can break; Why should I toil on, drifting hence, And while my heart’s awake? Though everywhere is a tang of scent, Of crispness in the air, This lonesome bud lest it should rent, Who waits for summer fair; In the midst of silence I’m alone in the night, Shield me with silence, void of pain; Tell how long I shall stave in the light, How long ‘til love attain.

• Robert Browning