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The wee small hours of blindfold night,
Before the darkness gropes to light,
Are hours most ill to lie awake.
Then will remorseless Conscience slake
His wrath, his vengeance, and his spite,
Tormenting every sleepless wight,
And into endless ages make
The wee small hours;


Then Memories' ghosts arise upright;
Then strong, throat-gripping fears affright;
Brave hearts long broke once more will break,
Old sorrow new life-lease will take,--
And these condemn us to this plight,
The wee small hours.