Sickness Like Night

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling
Within my heart the world’s disturbing sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling
With low, sweet voices by Life’s tumult drown’d.
Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest round
The things that are unseen--though close they lie;
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound,
Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye.
Thou art like starry, spiritual Night!
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way,
And revelations, which the common light
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:--Be welcome, then, thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.