William Winter

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?