Written At Midnight Poem by Samuel Rogers

While thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And my step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around me rise,
With many a face that smiles on me no more;
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!

--Say, when, to kindle soft delight,
That hand has chanced with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say--but no, it must not be.
Adieu! A long, a long adieu!
--Yest still, methinks, you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you.