Three o’Clock in the Morning

Three in the morning,

an hour of woe,

Breathes heartache and mourning

and deepest sorrow.

Its minutes are counted

with seconds and sighs

As in blanket-mound bed

fears dance ‘fore sore eyes.

The moments just lumber-

a funeral dirge-

While we, seeking slumber,

turn, toss on its verge.

The stillness is silence

as cold as a tomb

Yet burns so intense

it crowds th’empty room.

No pillow can soften,

nor lullaby light,

The three o’clock coffin

of a restless night.

 

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