Mine eyes are open but they cannot see for gloom of night; I can no more than lift my heart to thee for inward light. The wild and fiery passion of my youth consumes my soul; In agony I turn to thee for truth and self-control. For Passion and all the pleasures it can give will die the death; But this of me eternally must live, thy borrowed breath. ’Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling; I stumble as I fare along Earth’s way; keep me from falling. WHEN DAWN COMES TO THE CITY The tired cars go grumbling by, The moaning, groaning cars, And the old milk carts go rumbling by Under the same dull stars. Out of the tenements, cold as stone, Dark figures start for work; I watch them sadly shuffle on, ’Tis dawn, dawn in New York. But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh there! on the island of the sea, There I would be at dawn. The tired cars go grumbling by, The crazy, lazy cars, And the same milk carts go rumbling by Under the dying stars. A lonely newsboy hurries by, Humming a recent ditty; Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky, The dawn comes to the city. But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh there! on the island of the sea, There I would be at dawn. O WORD I LOVE TO SING O word I love to sing! thou art too tender For all the passions agitating me; For all my bitterness thou art too tender, I cannot pour my red soul into thee.