XCVII.

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: