Astrophil and
Stella, Sonnet
99
When far spent night persuades each mortal eye,
To
whom nor art nor
nature granteth light,
To lay
his then mark-wanting shafts
of sight,
Closed with their quivers, in sleep’s armoury;
With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,
Viewing
the shape of darkness and
delight,
Takes in
that sad hue, which with the
inward night
Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.
But when
birds charm, and that sweet
air, which is
Morn’s messenger, with rose-enameled skies,
Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss:
In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forced by
their lord, who
is ashamed to find
Such
light in sense, with such
a darkened mind.