The sun still sleeps, yet I sit

with the morning birds;

They drink the dew upon the leaves,

and sing a chirping morning song.

I have put King Henry to bed,

and praised his Machiavelli qualities,

while blissfully unaware of the hour;

tis a quarter to five in the morning.

Oh, William, how you do intrigue!

Upon finishing the masterpiece,

I yet yearn for more of your brilliant

prose in iambic pentameter.

Away off in the distance

I hear a dog’s echoing bark.

Does he see the third Richard, or is he

merely announcing the morning hour?

Ah me! As Juliet would sigh,

it is early, yet late–somewhere

in the between of night and day

and yet, I am at peace.

Neither tired, nor wired for daily

doings, I will sit and ponder

the worlds of Lear and Othello;

All the while–glad that I am neither.

A stirring in the next room alerts

me to others waking for the day.

Goodnight my dearest William.

Tis time to greet the morrow.