Classic Poem

Instead of black—brown gloom
In all the darkened room,
A struggle of dull light through the thick curtain.
A stir, the natural happiness from sleep,
Forgetfulness that one must weep
When this vague shadowy land becomes more certain.
And then—poor, tortured brain,
Thou art awake again!

Come, arm thyself to meet the awful day,
Thy sweet, brief respite 's done.
Rouse thyself, suffering one,
To bear thy misery as best thou may;
To think the thoughts again
That madden thee with pain,—
There 's no escape, oh, thou rebellious brain!